Page 184 of Property of Whiskey

“Keep going.”

“Twila.”

“No. Go ahead.”

“You turn everything into a fight.”

The bedroom doesn’t change, but something in me does. Same sentence. Same voice. Different year. Same fucking feeling of being told that refusing to shrink means I’m the problem.

Cal sees whatever happens on my face.

Regret flickers through his expression.

Then he pushes anyway. “You do. Everything has to be a battle. Your job. Wrestling. Your dad. Us.”

“Us?”

“You couldn’t just be happy.”

Something inside me closes. “You wanted me to quit wrestling.”

“I wanted you to stop getting hurt for fun.”

“You wanted me behind a desk.”

“I wanted you safe.”

“You wanted me pregnant.”

I yank another shirt from the closet hard enough to snap the plastic hanger. The broken hook hits the floor between us, and neither one of us looks down.

Cal’s face tightens. “I wanted a family.”

“You wanted a wife who came home at five, made dinner, and didn’t embarrass you by dropping men twice her size in public.”

“That ain’t fair.”

“You said you hated people knowing your fiancée wrestled in Hell.”

“I said I didn’t understand why you needed it.”

“I liked it.”

“You liked fighting.”

“I liked being good at something nobody expected me to be good at.”

“You’re good at plenty.”

“But not the things you wanted.”

Cal exhales through his nose. “See? Fight.”

My throat burns. I hate that. I hate Cal seeing it. I hate Whiskey seeing it more.

“Time’s up,” Whiskey announces.

Cal turns toward him. “This ain’t your business.”