Hazed (Palm South University)

“I am.” I took her hand in my own, her soft skin like silk in my calloused, dirty palm.

Her nose crinkled as she withdrew her hand, and she inspected it for dirt as she reached into her bag, pulling out a small tube of hand sanitizer.

“I’ve been waiting forever.” She squirted a drop of the cleaner in her hand and rubbed it together with the other. “Can we move this along?”

I sniffed, tucking my hands in my pockets. “Of course. My apologies, ma’am.”

I started off in the direction of the warehouse that stored our single barrels, not checking to see if she was following. I heard the click-clack of her heels behind me, her steps quickening to catch up.

“Ma’am,” she repeated incredulously. “That’s what people call my mother.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, not an ounce of actual apology in my voice. “Would you prefer Miss?”

“I would,” she said, sidling up to my side. Her ankles wobbled a little when we hit the gravel road. “Is there… are we walking the entire way?”

I eyed her footwear. “We are. You going to make it?”

The truth was, we had a golf cart reserved specifically for showing our clients the single barrels. In the back of my mind, I knew I should grab it. Miss Barnett was a potential buyer. But the way Lucy had responded to my mention of her name, and the way she’d practically curled her lip at the sight of me was enough to make me conveniently forget about the cart.

Little Miss Ruby Grace could walk in those heels she loved to tap so much.

She narrowed her eyes at my assumption. “I’ll make it just fine. I’m just surprised you don’t have… options for your clients. Especially considering the price of the product I’m here to inquire about.”

The words were strange as she spoke them, holding a level of arrogance but softened by the lilt of her Tennessee twang. It was like she was still a little girl, playing dress up in her mom’s heels, trying to be older than she was.

I stopped abruptly, and Ruby Grace nearly ran into me before her heels dug into the gravel.

“I could carry you,” I offered, holding my arms out.

Her little mouth popped open, her gaze slipping over my dirty t-shirt. Even though she was eyeing me like a mud puddle she had to maneuver around, I noted the slight tinge of pink on her cheeks, the bob of her throat as she swallowed.

“I don’t need you to carry me, sir.” She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “What is your name, anyway?”

“Does it matter?”

I started walking again, and she huffed, hurrying to catch up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

It means, I know you don’t give a rat’s ass what my name is and you’ll forget it as soon as you walk out of this distillery and back into your little silver-spoon world.

I sighed, biting my tongue against the urge to be an asshole.

“Noah.”

“Noah,” she repeated, rubbing her lips together afterward, like she was tasting each syllable of my name. “Nice to meet you.”

I didn’t respond, reaching forward to unlock the warehouse door, instead. Once the lock clicked, I tugged it open, gesturing for Ruby Grace to enter.

She stepped through the doorframe, pushing her glasses up to rest on top of her head as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. The distinct smell of oak and yeast settled in around us, and when the door closed, Ruby Grace’s eyes found me, wide and curious.

“Wait,” she said as I flipped on a few more lights. “You’re Noah Becker, aren’t you?”

The skin on my neck prickled at the way she said my last name, as if it said more about me than my dirty clothes in her mind.

“What about it?” I turned on her, and she was so close, her chest nearly brushed mine. She was still a few inches shorter than me, even in her heels, but her eyes met mine confidently.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, taking a tentative step back. “I didn’t mean it in any way. It’s just, I used to sit behind you in church. When I was little.” Her cheeks flamed. “We would play this game… oh gosh, never mind. I feel so silly.”

She waved me off, stepping even farther away as her head dipped. She clasped her hands together at her waist, waiting for me to speak, to lead us through the towering rows of barrels, but I just stared at her.

It was like seeing her for the first time.

That one apology, that awareness of herself, it was genuine and true. It was the young girl she actually was, slipping through the façade she’d painted so well.

And I smiled.

Because I did remember.

I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t put two and two together, but then again, how could I recognize the stunning, classy woman before me as the same freckle-faced kid who used to kick the back of my pew? She’d been just a girl then, and I had been eighteen, fresh out of high school and just as bored in church as she was. I couldn’t even remember what the game was that we played, only that it used to make her giggle so hard her mother would thump her on the wrist with her rolled-up program.