Page 2 of Pour Decisions
“Are you going to my mom’s birthday thing?” Amy asks.
“She’s having a birthday thing?” Amy’s mom—my dad’s sister-in-law—celebrates a whole birthday month, so I don’t see the point in her having a big party too.
“Yes. And you’re definitely invited. I checked.” Amy polishes off the remaining chowder in her bowl.
“Then no, I’m not.” I stare at the coffee machine. It’s new, but painfully slow.
“You should actually try going to places besides the office and your house every once in a while.” Amy sucks on the tines of her fork. “It’s great. Fresh air. People. Dates.”
I scoff. “I get out of the house, Amy. Just because I’m not going on dates doesn’t mean I’m rotting away at home. I train for trail races. I lift weights.”
Or I used to, before I hurt my back. I tried to put off physical therapy for as long as possible, but I finally caved and have my first appointment today. I thought I could work through it on my own, but shooting back pains whenever I move wrong and aches when I’m just sitting there are getting in the way of the only things that keep me sane.
Plus, Jepsen just opened its first physical therapy clinic, so I won’t have to drive forty-five minutes to the area around Crescent Hill University.
“My mom says she could set you up if you want,” Amy says.
“Why does everyone want to set me up on fucking dates?” I ask.
I haven’t wanted to date since my early twenties anyway. I fucked up the best possible relationship, so I don’t think I could find that againandkeep it alive.
“Because you’re a single man with a good career over six feet tall in this small town.” Amy shrugs. “And good-looking.”
Now I understand how my brother, Waylon felt with our mom trying to set him up with any woman with a pulse before he got with Bianca, his fiancée. At least with Waylon, I can see how Mom would pitch him. He’s a kind, friendly veterinarian at the clinic here in Jepsen.
I don’t know how anyone would pitch me besides the fact that I make good money, I’m fairly good-looking, and I’m tall. Leaving out the fact that people have consistently described me as cranky and overly serious feels like selling someone a car knowing it has a bum transmission.
“It’s annoying.” I pour milk into my mug so I don’t have to stir it in when the coffee is ready.
“I’m just the messenger, JD.” She eyes the pies on the table. “And as a messenger, I’m telling you to talk up Jerry’s chowder because Dolores won last week.”
Finally, Amy leaves me alone. The coffee finishes brewing and I pour myself a cup. I leave Dolores and Jerry behind, bickering over their chowder, and head to my office.
I’ve been working in the family company in some capacity ever since I was eighteen, starting as a bar back at our bar, The Copper Moon. Sixteen years later, I’m a VP. I was fast-tracked because of who I am, sure, but I’m not going to coast because of it.
Dad wouldn’t let that shit slide anyway. He doesn’t let anything slide, even with his own brothers. He definitely doesn’t let things slide with me—he’s been hard on me for as long as I can remember, preparing me to take over for him when he retires.
I swing by Dad’s office and find him frowning at his computer, as usual. He’s on board with some technological changes, but not others, and our newest switch to a bettersystem to monitor what’s going on in the distillery is his latest annoyance.
“Why can’t we just walk in and look at this shit?” Dad mumbles, looking over his glasses.
I’m surprised he doesn’t go on a “back in my day” spiel. Petting Bubba distracts him. My dad doesn’t like most people, but he’s never met a dog he doesn’t like. It’s one of the few features about him that convinces me he’s not an asshole deep down. I have to call upon this fact about him when I’m moments from telling him off.
“Because that wouldn’t be efficient. Do you want me to take a look?” I ask.
He gestures at the screen and rolls backward so I can take a closer look. My back twinges hard when I bend over and I suck in a breath, barely holding in a groan. I close my eyes for a second and pull it together.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dad asks.
“Nothing,” I say, even though for a second I’m frozen in place. “Just my back.”
“Shape up,” Dad grunts.
I bite back the annoyed response I’m longing to let out. If there’s anything Dad hates, it’s physical weakness.
I hate it too, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
“Everything looks good,” I say, carefully standing back up. The stabbing pain still happens but I cover it up by clearing my throat.
