Page 182 of Property of Whiskey

Whiskey releases him immediately.

Cal steps toward me. “Come on.”

I don’t move.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“I’m not going with you.”

“I’m taking you to your dad.”

“No.”

He stops. “What?”

“I said no.”

“Twila, you’ve been missing.”

“I know.”

“The entire county’s looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Your dad is out of his damn mind.”

Cal plants his hands on his hips. That same stance he used during the last year of our relationship, the one that says he thinks the conversation has already been settled and I’m simply taking too long to understand the conclusion.

“I know.”

“He did this?”

He points at my wrists.

Behind me, Whiskey shifts one boot against the floor, then deliberately stops.

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“It’s complicated.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Whiskey mutters, “Knew somebody was gonna say that eventually.”

I shoot him a look.

Cal looks between us. “Why are you here with him?”

“I came to get clothes.”

“Why?”

“Because I ain't coming home yet.”

“Twila, you are home.” His face empties. “You’re staying with him?”