Page 3 of Sweet Like Whiskey

“You got something to take down a number?” Earl asks.

“Oh. Sure?”

I pull out my phone, and Earl rattles off ten digits. “That’s Ratchet’s shop. Give ’im a call tomorrow for an estimate.”

“Got it, thanks,” I say, pocketing my phone. “And, uh, thanks for the ride, Earl.”

He gives me a brisk nod. “Enjoy your visit to Montana. And Ash?”

“Yeah?”

“Watch out for the donkey.”

I blink, and Earl pulls away, his truck rumbling as it takes a bend in the road. Shaking my head, I turn and face town.

And then I stop still.

Squat red-brick shop fronts flank either side of the gently sloping two-lane road, down which vehicles are parked, more than I’m expecting for early evening on a Tuesday. The mountains sit centered in the distance like a quiet sentinel, too far away for me to estimate their size apart fromhuge. Along the sidewalks are planters holding flowers in bright shades of pink and red and yellow, and awnings cover many of the businesses’ front doors, creating a quaint, colorful visage. Small town charm at its finest.

But what captures and holds my attention is the large, swaying sign high above the street. Etched into the wood are four simple words. Four simple, monumental words.

Welcome to Darling, Montana.

I pull in a breath, fresh air filling my lungs. “We made it, Edna.”

With a grin, I pick up my suitcases and head into town.

The Barrel isn’t difficult to find, even without navigation. After passing a clothing store, a fudge shop, and an antiques market, I stop in front of a glass-front building flanked by two large casks. Like the other planters along the road, the wooden barrels are filled with flowers, brightening the exterior of the bar. “The Barrel” is stenciled on the window in front of me, and past it, I can just make out my friend.

Virginia lets out an ungodly screech the moment I push through the door, and every head inside the bar swivels in our direction. My tiny firecracker of a friend doesn’t care in the least, all five-foot-three of her—five-fourif you count the poofy brown hair—strutting my way. I have just enough time to drop mysuitcases before Virginia is in my arms, squeezing me like I’m a lemon she’s trying to juice.

“Jesus, Ginnie,” I groan.

She squeezes harder. “Don’t complain, baby boy. I haven’t seen you inthree goddamn years. I’m allowed to squeeze the stuffing outta you.”

“Yes, Mom.”

She drops down and swats me on the chest with a hand towel that had been tucked into her apron. I hiss, hand over my nipple as she turns to face the room.

“Everybody,” Virginia calls, much to my mortification. “This is Ash. My best friend in the whole dang world. Be nice to him or you’re cut off.”

There are a few chuckles at that, a couple people wave, and a few others tilt their hats in greeting. I offer a quick smile before grabbing my suitcases and hustling after Virginia. As she makes her way behind the bar, I stuff my suitcases out of the way and slide onto a stool.

“Thanks for that,” I mutter, brushing my hair off my face. “Just what I needed—everyone staring.”

“Baby,” Virginia says lightly, plunking a glass down in front of me. She fills it with water. “You’re in Darling now. Ain’t no such thing as a stranger here, so you better get used to it. Folks in this town are gonna be aggressively polite.”

“That’s…comforting.”

She snorts before resting her elbows on the bartop. “You doing okay?” she asks seriously.

My stomach tumbles over, and I lean closer, speaking low. “Ginnie. Tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

“You are,” she says immediately.

“This isn’t stupid? Coming all this way without a plan? Up and leaving everything behind?”

“Nothing you’ve done or ever will do could be stupid, Ash,” she says before pausing. “Well,almostnothing. This is the right thing for you. I know it. You do, too. Trust that gut of yours.”

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