“You did.”
“Caleb.”
His jaw shifts. “What?”
“Why does protecting people make you crazy?”
That lands.
I know it the second his expression changes.
The teasing disappears.
I immediately wish I’d chosen different words.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“I shouldn’t have said crazy.”
“You asked.”
He puts the knife down. For a moment I think he’s going to walk away. Instead, he reaches for his beer and leans against the counter across from me.
“My father liked to drink.”
I stay quiet.
“He was mean sober. Worse drunk.”
My fingers tighten around my wineglass.
“To your mother?”
He nods once.
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Sometimes us.”
Us.
“You have a sibling?”
He nods. “Abby.”
He takes a drink.
“Is she younger?”
“Two years.”
The pieces begin rearranging themselves.
Caleb checking locks.