Page 85 of Whiskey Proposal

He winces. “Shit.”

“Bring some chips and dip.” I watch a chicken dart across the lawn.

What am I going to do, sit in Lane’s house while they’re all at Cruz’s? How is that making a point? What does it hurt to have dinner? The breakfasts with Lane have been our normal, but I’ve worked through lunch, and he’s at the distillery during most dinnertimes.

One dinner. With people around. It’s not a date. “I’ll make potato salad.”

Brooks screws his face up. “Mom’s recipe?”

“She sucks, but her potato salad doesn’t.”

I gush over the butterfly bed set that Brooks bought her.

I ruffle her hair. “I’ve gotta get going.”

“You should recite some facts.” She keeps poking at her phone screen.

“Why’s that, Bunny?”

“You don’t come into the house. It upsets you. So maybe you should recite some facts. You know? Like when I get stuck in my—what’s it called, Daddy?”

“Amygdala.”

My house issue has been noticed by my eleven-year-old niece, who’s doing more to cope than I am. To be fair, Brooks also got her the help she needed. I’ve been rawdogging my mental health issues. Like standing up a handsome distillery exec, then ignoring him when we live together. Perhaps it’s time to figure something else out, at least for one part of my life—like entering this house.

The handsome distillery exec who invited my brother behind my back will be dealt with in a different way.

“Can you do me a favor?” I ask her. She nods. “Send me a list of ten facts?”

“Yes!” She runs back into the house. I’ll probably get a text of a hundred in a chaotic voice message in ten minutes, but I’ll sort it out.

“What time is the dinner?” I ask Brooks.

“Six.”

That gives me plenty of time to get to town, buy supplies, and ask Lane what the hell he was thinking.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Lane

When I enter the house after work, it smells like boiled potatoes and mustard. The line of artwork on my wall is the same, but a few of the chicken pictures have been packed and put away.

Shit.

I walk farther into my house. The trio of retro rooster images is gone. Some dishes clink in the kitchen.

“Em?”

“What?” Her tone is sharp.

Shit.

I turn into the dining room. She’s at the dishwasher. When she sees me, she slams the dishwasher door shut and crosses her arms. The hip is kicked out.

“I made a potato salad.” She says it like an accusation.

That answers my question of whether she’s coming tonight. “I can’t wait to try it.”