Page 69 of Old Fashioned
I looked up at the stars above Noah’s corner of the treehouse, trying to explain it.
“I’m already afraid of how I feel, like I’m an aerial artist that just flung off my hoop into the air and I have no idea if her hands are outstretched and ready to catch mine or if I’m going to freefall to my death. I’m more anxious than I’ve been my entire life, and I don’t want to be stupid.” My throat closed in on itself before I said my next sentence. “If she’s not in it, I need to let her go.”
There was another long pause, and we all sipped from our glasses, letting the whiskey settle in as if it could help us problem solve.
“I think you should tell her,” Noah said. “Tomorrow. Just put it all out there.”
“I agree,” Mikey chimed in. “I mean, at this point, the possible gain is worth the possible risk. You just said it — if she’s not where you are, then it’s better to stop it now, before you both get in deeper.”
I nodded, and Logan told me with his eyes that he agreed, too.
“Thanks, brothers.”
They offered small smiles, and then the conversation was changed — blessedly — and they let me slip back into my quiet state.
Somewhere around midnight, as we were packing up and getting ready to leave, Mikey stopped in the middle of the treehouse, looking around at each of our corners.
“I wish Dad could be here tonight,” he whispered. “And tomorrow, for you, Noah.” He looked at our brother then, whose face crumpled a bit.
“I do, too,” Logan said.
“He’s here,” I reminded them, clapping the two oldest ones on the shoulder. We all stood there, taking in what our father had built — not just with wood, but with his blood, sweat, and tears.
He’d built that treehouse.
And he’d built us, too.
My chest tightened, and I hooked an arm around each of them, reminding them that no matter what, we had each other. Then, I echoed the truest belief I had.
“He’s always here.”
Later that night — or rather,veryearly the next morning — I lay wide awake in my bed, one arm under the pillow behind my head, eyes on the ceiling.
I couldn’t sleep, and I wasn’t surprised.
Talking with my brothers had my thoughts running laps in my head again, and when I glanced at my phone screen where it lay on my bedside table and saw that it was nearly three in the morning, I huffed, tossing the covers off me and storming to the kitchen to get some water.
I needed to sleep. I was one of the groomsmen in the wedding tomorrow — or rather,today, and it would be a long day. I drank half a glass of cold water, looking around my little house and debating whether I should get in a quick twenty-minute, high-intensity workout and take a hot shower to see if those two things combined would make me pass out.
But then my eyes landed on my laptop where it sat on my coffee table, and on the external hard drive next to it.
Digging into Dad’s journal this late was a bad idea. I was tired, and I needed to be focusing on sleeping, not on staring at a computer screen.
Then again, I knew even with a workout and a shower that sleep wasn’t anywherenearwithin reach, so I refilled my glass and padded into the living room, pulling the computer onto my lap and plugging in the hard drive.
I scrubbed my hands over my face as the screen loaded, typing in Dad’s password when the login page popped up. I had his journal open in the next minute, and then I lost myself in translating the Latin entries, in the boring day to day my father had experienced at the distillery.
I hadn’t realized how long I’d been working.
I hadn’t realized how much time I’d made up for, how much of his journal still remained when I dove into it that night.
I hadn’t realized that after just ninety minutes, I’d be staring at the last entry.
It was marked at the top with the date of his death.
My stomach lurched — so violently that I shot up straight, gripping the edges of the laptop as my eyes scanned that date in the top right-hand corner over and over again.
It was the last entry.
