Page 6 of Until Next Time
I brought a bouquet of handpicked wildflowers to Susan every week for two months before they decided to sell it to me.
Buying the winery just made sense to me from a business standpoint—it literally shares a wall with my shop, and we have history. Nobody was going to take better care of it than I would—this I promised Susan in the form of notes I’d attach to the wildflowers every week.
Roan Mercantile has been in my family since I was just a little boy. It was always my Pop’s dream to own a general store. He and my Mema poured everything they had into this little shop. It was perfectly curated, full of unique souvenirs, tasteful decor items, local honeys, baked goods, and small thrifted trinkets.
My Mema had a knack for finding the best things. I guess that’s where my mom got it.
Roan Mercantile was attached to Saddlebrooke Winery, and as a young boy, I’d hang out in the shop with my Pop and we’d often head next door after closing up to visit with Doug and Susan.“Well it must be my lucky day!”Is what Susan would greet me with every time we’d stroll in. She’d always cup the side of my face with her hand and give me the warmest smile. She’s the type of woman who makes you feel loved without any per-requisites. Whether you deserve it or not.
She’d always keep a jar of chocolate covered pretzels for me behind the tasting counter. I’d snack while Pop and Doug talked about fishing, and other business matters. The shop andthe winery were just part of who I was. I guess I felt like they were both weaved into me. Like, even though they were just businesses. Buildings. I had a kindred relationship with them.
I ended up inheriting Roan Mercantile when my Pop and Mema passed away.
I was in the thick of business school when I became the sole owner of the shop and I won’t lie, the first couple of years were tough. I didn’t have a clue how to run a business, the stress of not wanting to let my Pop down, and the pressure I was putting on myself to turn it into something even more special—it was a lot.
Greg came into the shop one day and told me he wanted to work for me. Greg was about my dad’s age, he was born and raised in this town. He was a successful pilot who had retired earlier that year. I remember shutting him down immediately letting him know that I couldn’t even pay myself, let alone anyone else.
“I want to work for you,for free.I love this shop, and I believe in you. Let’s do this together.”
I’ll never forget that day. My throat felt hot, and I had to fight back tears, and ever since, Greg has been here—not taking‘no’for an answer.
The first time our shop started making a profit, the first check I wrote was to Greg.
He didn’t accept it, and actually ripped it to shreds in front of me. Later that night I showed up at his house, new check in hand, and told him, “It’s not up to you who I pay.” I left before he could speak, and as I turned away, I added “cash the check, asshole.”
He laughed and shut the door.
7
Birdie
I threw on a pair of my favorite worn in jeans. The ones with holes in the knees, and paired it with a yellow baby tee that has the words, “Hot girls read fiction” in red text. I threw on my favorite leopard coat, pulled on my red cowgirl boots and headed to a less pathetic existence—taking over my phone bill.
Just as I was grabbing the handle on the door, I hear my dad holler from the living room, “Go get ‘em, tiger!” I can hear my mom snicker, and with that, I just groan and leave.
I get to the driver’s side of my car, a 1998 Volkswagen Cabriolet, in my favorite color, cherry red.
That’s when I see a rock just sitting on my door handle. I roll my eyes, and fight off the butterflies that are erupting in the pit of my stomach, because he remembered.
It’s been an unspoken running joke between Dawsen and I—well, I don’t know if it’s a joke, or rather just something he does? I don’t know. It makes my brain fuzzy if I think about it for too long.
In high school, when I finally got my driver’s license, I was so excited to finally get to park in the student’s lot. I felt so unbelievably grown up andcoolfor actually being very uncool. Dawsen passed my car on the way to his truck everyday and he would leave random things on my door handle. Rocks, leaves, gum wrappers, whatever he could find on the ground nearby I presume. At first I didn’t know who was the culprit, until one day I saw him across the lot bend down and pick something up, jog over to my car and then move on like nothing ever happened.
I don’t know why he did it, but I liked it. Because whatever his reasoning was, I knew I passed through his mind for that split second, and that did something to my body that was hard to put into words.
I am a psycho and kept a shoe box under my bed for the rest of my teenage years that was home to a collection of tiny door handle things.
* * *
The Verizon store experience was a total fiasco. It didn’t take me long to remember why I avoided this for so long. They helped me pick out a phone plan, a new phone, and when they tried to up-sell me on the fancy screen protector, I turned them down. It was then that they also let me know that I couldn’t keep my existing phone number. Something about it being locked into my parents account and it wouldn’t be able to be transferred to my new, single, adult woman phone plan. And to top off the wholeexperience, I didn’t back up my phone, so I lost all my photos and contacts.
Boo Hiss.
That was so much fun. I plan to never do that again.
* * *
There are few numbers I remember by heart, and one of those belongs to my very best friend. To which I’ve been meaning to text since I arrived back home, 24 hours ago.Oops.
