Page 84 of More Than My Hometown

23

EWAN

Sucking in a long, hard breath, I tell myself to just fucking do it. That it’s now or never. I’m a grown-ass man and this is no big deal. Just tap the fucking button.

Closing my eyes, I move my thumb quickly, hitting the little spot on my screen, letting the whoosh of the sent text fill the air and sending my anxiety skyrocketing.

Got time to talk?

At least it’s better than we need to talk. Although, not by much.

Gus

Always. At Pour Decisions. Need me to come to you?

My oldest brother’s reply is swift and succinct, as if I would expect anything less from him. Looking up from my phone, I scan the parking lot, looking for Gus’s very distinct 1971 Glacial Blue Plymouth Barracuda. A car that you could not miss in most crowds if you were blindfolded, but you most certainly don’t in Hickory Hills. And you absolutely would not miss it in the all but empty parking lot of your second oldest brother’s bar in the middle of the day.

Although it’s convenient that he’s already here.

My plan had been to go drown my feelings while simultaneously filling myself with liquid courage while I waited for a response, but looks like that’s out.

On my way

Piling out of my truck, I make my way into the old, warehouse-like space that now acts as a taproom for Southern Brothers Brewing. The large, open area is filled with tables, with a long roughcut bar on the far end. Two garage-style doors behind it open to a grassy area that is now home to a picnic shelter and tables for their weekly Drafts and Dig In night, before leading to the actual brewery building on the far side of the property. The whole operation has come a long way since Milo and Brandt started it up more than fifteen years ago.

“That was quick,” Milo comments from behind the bar as I weave through the tables toward him and Gus.

“What, were you sitting in the parking lot?” Gus quips.

“Actually…” I settle on the stool next to him, letting my non-answer linger. “Speaking of, where’s the ’cuda?”

“Spa day with Ken.”

Spa day?

I look at my brother incredulously. I know he takes that car seriously—a little too seriously, which is the only way Gus knows how to do anything—but calling your car going in for maintenance a “spa day” is next level. Even for him. I also can’t imagine that Ken Noble, the town mechanic, is advertising spa days for vehicles.

Past that, why is he here waiting on his car and not the office? Pour Decisions is closer to the center of town and A Noble Mechanic than Hayes headquarters where Gus’s office is, but it’s not walking-distance close. At least, I wouldn’t have thought so. So why not get a ride to the office? And where’s Margeaux in all this?

Shaking my head, I turn to look at Milo on the other side of the bar, as if he’s going to provide some answers. Sassy smile firmly in place, Milo chuckles, tossing his bar towel over his shoulder.

“My advice, baby brother? Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers to.” He nods, and I can’t disagree with him. Because I know no matter what I say, Gus will only have an even more ridiculous justification. Not worth it. “Drink?”

“It’s eleven a.m.”

Milo lifts one shoulder casually. “We don’t judge here. But if you don’t want a beer, I’ve got the lemonade we make the shandies with or some bottles of water out back. Or one of Bronwyn’s Diet Cokes—just don’t tell her.”

The fact that our marketing director has her very own stash of her preferred drink behind the bar says a lot. Not that long ago, Milo and his business partner, Brandt, staunchly held to the line about not being a full bar, and therefore only served Southern Brothers beer. He’s always kept water on hand too—whether bottles or simply from the tap—but for a long time that was the only other option. Until Brandt came up with the Sobbin’ Shandy—mixing their hallmark ale with lemonade—and they started to keep that as well, even if not sold separately. Then we hired Bronwyn, a non-drinker who might as well hook herself up to a Diet Coke IV. So much so there’s some in the Southern Brothers mini fridge.

Soda isn’t what I need right now, however. This is definitely a beer conversation.

“Actually, a Party Mode sounds good,” I tell him, hoping he really meant that not judging thing. Given that I’m not the only brother in here, hours prior to the taproom opening, I think I’m safe.

Milo nods, grabbing a pint glass and tugging on the wooden handle, amber liquid pouring from the spout.

“So, what’s up?” Gus asks, closing a manila folder and pushing it to the side. “Everything okay?”

“It’s…yeah, it’s fine.”