Quentin turns to his cousin again, who’s kept silent by my side, observing me. Rafael’s gaze lingers a beat too long before he finally turns to Quentin. “Hey. Have any coffee?”
Quentin looks back. “Yeah. Sugar? Milk?”
“Yes, please.”
I thought he took his coffee black, but I’m too rattled to inquire. I came here for a whiskey, to take the edge off after that encounter with my brother, and I ended up in the most awkward ex-slash-family gathering I can think of.
I needlesstension, not more, because I’mthisclose to getting into my car, driving all the way to Wethersfield, and knocking on my grandparents’ door with a million questions I’m not sure I want answered tonight.
But theywillbe answered tomorrow.
Quentin turns away to prepare our drinks. The awkwardness lingers, and I think I can take a guess at why.
I glance sideways at Rafael, my mouth dry. “You’re sure Quentin doesn’t care about us hanging out?”
“Yeah, we talked about it.” He shrugs, looking unbothered. “He said he’s okay with it.”
Theytalkedabout it?
“How did that conversation go?”
“He came over to the house before the funeral. I asked him if he’d be okay with me asking you out. He said he didn’t care.” He drums his fingers against the table. “That he was seeing someone.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Who?”
He laughs, a soft, teasing sound. “Jealous?”
“Not really. Who is it?”
Rafael shrugs. “He wouldn’t say. I just hope she’s old enough to drink.”
We fall into silence as Quentin sets our drinks down on the counter, then walks away without a word. My whiskey is a rich amber, deceptively smooth-looking, but even from here I can smell the sharp tang of alcohol cutting through the heavier notes of caramel and oak. It stings my eyes, which I guess is promising.
“So, whiskey, huh?” Rafael breaks into my thoughts, looking at me with mild amusement.
“It’s the strongest drink I could think of.”
“Okay,” he says, his tone so casual it almost unnerves me. “Shall we grab a table?”
“Yep.” I need to sit down. I’ve never had whiskey, but I assume I’ll be knocked out pretty quickly.
We settle into the closest booth, the surface of my drink rippling faintly under the dim light. I didn’t know thatneatmeant undiluted.It’s just whiskey, I tell myself.People drink this all the time.
“Want to order something else?” Rafael’s knee presses against mine under the table.
I shake my head, mustering up a defiant look before I lift the glass to my lips. The scent is intense, smoky, and bold, and the moment I take a sip, a burning heat rushes over my tongue, down mythroat, and straight to my chest. For a second, I just sit there, feeling it spread through me like wildfire. Then I shiver so hard my spine hurts. “Ugh. Oh my God. It’s…disgusting.”
One corner of his lips lifts as he stirs his coffee, the warm, comforting smell wafting around me. I should have gotten one, too. Ilovecoffee. Why did I have to go with whiskey?
With one movement, he slides my glass toward himself and puts his cup in front of me.
Wait a second. Is this why he took his coffee with milk and sugar? Because he knew I’d hate whiskey?
“Did your dad tell you about the night I left?”
Any thought of beverages goes out the window as I meet his gaze. I know I have to play it cool, pretend that he hasn’t just suddenly acknowledged the elephant in the room that I had figured he’d want to ignore at all costs. “The, uh, the night you left?”
Well done, Scarlett.
