One Last Time (Loveless Brothers 5)

“— where are we going?”

“Oh, I have to run one more quick errand,” she says. “It’ll just take a few minutes.”

I glance down at the dashboard clock.

“I promise I’ll be in and out,” she says, and because it’s Vera, I do not make a that’s what he said joke.

“My hair’s not gonna tame itself,” I say, pointing at my high, messy bun, tendrils already popping out all over the place. “And I told Winona I’d help her with makeup and she’s got that hideous mole —”

“She does not,” Vera says. “Be nice to your sister. It’ll be five minutes, I just need to swing by the brewery and order some more beer, because more of your father’s golfing buddies are going to be there than I originally accounted for.”

Then it clicks. This is the road to Loveless Brewing, which is a little ways out of town and, yes, it’s owned by that Loveless.

My heart starts knocking against my ribcage as if it would like to be let out, and I’m immediately suspicious. Vera was being real cagey about where we were going, not to mention our delightful discussion of Seth yesterday, a topic I thought was closed.

“We can’t just call?” I ask, stating the obvious.

“I’ll feel better if we go in person,” she says. “The telephone is just so impersonal, don’t you think?”

“We’re adding to a beer order, not asking someone to prom,” I say.

We go around a curve and the brewery comes into view: a large, low-slung building styled after farm outbuildings.

“Yes, I know,” she says. “But since this is a last-minute request, I think a little face-to-face contact is nice.”

Something is up, and I suspect that we’re not so much working on Project: Ava’s Wedding as we are Project: Find Delilah A Man, a project that I have repeatedly and firmly denounced.

She flicks on the turn signal with one manicured hand. This time, I say nothing. What’s the point? She already knows my opinion on this, and furthermore, if I accuse her of dragging me specifically to the brewery, she'll scoff and tell me that she just needs to order more beer.

They’re going to have Loveless beer at the wedding, so of course that’s the one and only reason we’re going to the brewery, and do I always have to read devious motives into something so simple?

According to my therapist, that's called gaslighting. Also according to my therapist, there's little we can do to change the people we love, we can only change our reactions to them, particularly when they're your stepmom and have been set in their ways for longer than you’ve been alive.

“The rehearsal dinner starts at five and you said you wanted to be there by four,” I remind her, closing the binder on my lap. My fingers slide a little along the smooth plastic, my palms already lightly sweaty, my heart thumping just a little too much.

It's no big deal, I remind myself. You probably won't even see him, and even if you do, it's fine. You're adults.

You've made small talk before, for fuck's sake.

Vera pulls carefully into a space and turns the car off.

My stomach whirls. Still. Even after all this time, seeing him makes my insides twist and knot like a tree growing from a cliff’s edge, buffeted for years by the wind.

“Come on,” Vera says, getting out of the car. “Ten minutes, I swear.”Chapter TwoSethThe big metal refrigerator door closes behind us with a whomp, and I put one hand on it, just to make sure it seals.

“I’m just saying that technically, it’s child labor,” I say.

“She also sells Girl Scout cookies,” Daniel points out. “Is that child labor?”

“That’s a volunteer position for a nonprofit organization.”

Or at least, I assume it is. Surely the Girl Scouts of America are tax-exempt.

“Well, she gets fifty bucks per half-bushel,” he goes on as we walk back toward our offices, past the huge silver cylinders. Each of them has a nozzle and a dial, and out of sheer habit, Daniel gives each one a quick look as we pass it by.

“Fifty? Are we a charity?”

“Those things are tiny,” he says, sounding a tad defensive. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to pick half a bushel of juniper berries? Besides, it’s skilled work, you’ve got to find the right tree and get a ladder —”

“All of which her uncle does for her,” I point out.

“If you want to renegotiate her rates, you’re welcome to try,” he says, a small smile on his face. “Eli made some kind of pact with her about cake a few years ago and she still gets payment. Ruthless, I tell you.”

He’s right. At nine years old, his daughter Rusty has all four of her uncles wrapped around her little finger.

“Did you have her fill out a W-9?” I ask. “Or is she also dodging her taxes?”