Page 51 of Bottle Shock
When she was little, she’d cling to my shirt when I dropped her off with my mom before work, crying like the world was ending. Now she waves before the car even stops at school drop-off, already scanning for her friends. She used to beg for one more bedtime story, one more song. Now she’s the one reminding me she’s too old for all that.
And the truth is, I want her to be brave. Independent. Secure. I just didn’t think it would happen this fast.
I lean forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I love you, bear.”
“Love you too,” she mumbles, already half asleep.
I stay there longer than I need to, until her breathing evens out. Then I slip from the room, pulling the door almost closed behind me.
Moving through the motions, I get to work cleaning up—stacking dishes, folding a blanket, gathering stray crayons from the coffee table.
By the time I shower and change, it’s close to nine. I sit on the edge of my bed, scrolling through my phone without seeing anything. I think about Lily’s trip—the way her face will light up.
I should feel nothing but relief knowing she’s in goodhands. But all I can think about is how little she’ll need me for those two weeks. How she’s already learning to live whole days that don’t revolve around me.
That’s what you want, I remind myself. You want her to feel safe everywhere. You want her to build her own world.
Still, there’s a sting to it—the kind that comes with realizing you’ve done your job well enough to start being left behind.
I grab the laundry basket from the corner and start folding—tiny T-shirts, mismatched socks, a pair of shorts with grass stains that will never come out.
Afterward, I wander into the kitchen for a glass of wine—a new recipe I’m testing before we bottle it for consumers.
I catch my reflection in the window above the sink—tired eyes, a beard in need of a trim, a man who looks older than he feels.
There’s a knock at the door.
I glance at the clock—9:23. Too late for my parents to drop by.
The knock comes again, softer this time.
I cross the living room, flip on the porch light, and pull open the door.
Scottie is standing there.
Her hair is wet and draped down her white T-shirt, face bare of makeup and revealing her freckles, long legs on display in cotton shorts. She’s standing in front of me like it’s perfectly normal to be here, but the uncertainty in her eyes says she knows it isn’t.
“Hey,” she says softly, like she’s not sure if she’s welcome or not.
For a second, I just stare at her, trying to decide if I’m imagining her or not. Then I open the door a little wider.
“Hey,” I say back as I step aside. “You want to come in?”
She hesitates for a second before nodding. “Thanks.”Slipping past me, her arms are wrapped around her. Her T-shirt is damp at the shoulders, darkened where her hair is still wet and doing very little to hide her pointed nipples beneath the fabric. It takes everything in me to keep my eyes where a gentleman should. “Sorry for showing up so late. I wasn’t thinking—well, Iwas, but not clearly.”
“It’s fine.” I close the door behind her. “Lily is out cold. You could set off fireworks in the living room and she wouldn’t move.”
That earns a small laugh, but her fingers keep twisting the hem of her shirt. “I, um…was wondering if I could stay in the pool house tonight? Just for the night. I’ll be gone in the morning.”
“You don’t have to ask,” I tell her. “Of course. I’ve only been offering it every chance I get.”
She exhales, a quiet release of tension, then glances toward the hallway. “I was at my parents’, and they had people over. It felt easier to get out of their way.” She looks down, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t sure where else to go.”
I nod, giving her space to keep talking if she wants. She doesn’t.
She could’ve gone anywhere else, but she came here. I try not to think too hard about what that means.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask, holding up my glass. “Wine?”
