Page 3 of Pour Decisions
Dad leans back in his seat and sighs. He’s a big man—tall and broad—but soft from age. He’s worked himself to the bone for decades and it’s starting to show on his face. Mom’s been on him about taking it slower lately.
“Good.” He folds his hands over his belly. “You’ll have to stay on production about this. We need to keep raising our bourbon sales in a big way. Especially once I retire.”
We’re already one of the top bourbon brands in the region—our energy would probably be better spent trying to expand in other ways instead of chipping away at something that’s honed.
I need to get back to work, so I hold back my opinion for now. I don’t have time to get into a debate. And once I take over, I can put our energy in the right place. Assuming Dad actually retires and becomes an adviser to the company. He’s waffled on it back and forth the past few years, but this time it seems like he’s really going to do it.
Dad goes back to his work on the computer, poking at the keys to type out an email—likely without punctuation—and I go back to my office. I churn through my work, only taking a break to take Bubba on a quick loop around the building, and eventually leave for my appointment.
The physical therapy clinic is attached to another doctor’s office on the main strip downtown. Downtown has grown faster than its available parking, so finding a spot is a nightmare. I end up parking five blocks away in the one larger lot that always seems full whenever I drive past it.
The clinic is much friendlier than a regular doctor’s office, with warm lighting and colors. The receptionist tells me where I can change my clothes for my session, and that my physical therapist will be with me shortly.
I kill time checking my email while I wait. I have no idea what to expect, but I hope it doesn’t run long. I want all of this to be done as soon as possible so I can get back to normal.
A familiar laugh pulls me out of my inbox. Even though I haven’t heard it in about ten years, I can place it immediately.
My ex, Katrina.
For a second I think I’m hallucinating—that I’m seeing another Black woman with the same build, height, and splotch of a birthmark across the top of her forearm that’s shaped vaguely like Tennessee. But it can only be her.
My stomach swoops to my feet again and my thoughts wipe clean as she comes down the hallway with another client. She says goodbye to them with a smile, then sees me.
She’s not surprised to see me at all, but I sure fucking am.
I’m not surprised that she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. Her brown skin is dotted with more dark freckles than before, her eyes a shade or two lighter. Something about her features parallels just how sweet she is—wide eyes framed with long lashes, soft, feminine angles, and full lips. Her lush curves look good even in a standard-issue polo shirt.
I think back to my paperwork. I remember my physical therapist being listed as Katrina, but Katrina’s a somewhat common name. Her last name when we were together was Wheeler, but the last name on the paperwork was Andersen.
So unless she decided to change her last name on a whim, she got married.
I’ve dreamed of seeing her again over and over in the ten or so years since everything fell apart. And those dream speeches managed to distill most of my feelings—that I’ve regretted how things ended every fucking day and that I feel the gap where she should be every time I do something we could have done together. That I wish I could have had enough of a backbone to figure out some alternative besides ending things.
Now it’s too late, apparently, and it’s like someone’s twisted a knife that’s been piercing me for a decade further into a wound that's still unhealed.
Instead of keeping it cool and saying hello, I blurt, “You’re married?”
Like a fucking idiot.
CHAPTER TWO
KATRINA
JD hasa lot of nerve to ask me if I’m married right off the bat.
Because no, I’m not anymore. Thank god—it was a short-lived disaster. Not that it’s any of his business.
But seriously. JD and I dated for a (very intense) year and a half, then he dumped me in the worst fucking wayten years ago. And now he’s looking at me likehe’sdevastated?
I take a deep breath through my nose. I’ve never flown off the handle at anyone in my life, but seeing him is such a jolt that I’m tempted to let loose.
As much as how he ended things still hurts, my body just reacts looking at him— full-on tingles, face getting hot, a general hyperawareness of myself. I hoped the last ten years wouldn’t have been kind to him because he wasn’t kind to me, but he looks just as hot as he did the day I sat down at the bar at the Copper Moon and saw him for the first time.
His dark hair is cut way better, bringing out its wavy texture. And he grew a beard.A beard. A great one, too, neatly trimmed and full. I always loved his eyes too, even though he thought they were boring. They’re just as dark as his hair, a nice contrast to his fair skin. The subtleties of the shades of brown come out when the light hits them just right.
Thankfully the part of my brain that has sense grabs the wheel before I go careening off a mental cliff.
“That’s not relevant. I’m your physical therapist,” I say, instead of answering his question. I’ll let him sweat a bit.
