Page 177 of Property of Whiskey

“Wren owns a cardboard castle.”

He wanders toward the photograph wall, and I immediately regret having walls.

There are too many pictures. Me at twelve holding a wrestling trophy. Sixteen beside Daddy’s patrol car. Academy graduation. One from a match with Sheila. Christmases. Birthdays. Daddy. Mama.

Whiskey stops in front of the photograph I knew would catch him.

My mother is sitting on the hood of Daddy’s old truck, laughing into the camera with blonde hair whipping across her face. I’m beside her at fourteen, all knees, elbows, braces, and too much attitude already.

“That your mama?”

“Yeah.”

“She looks like you.”

“I look like her.”

“Same thing.”

“No.”

He glances at me. “How old were you?”

“When?”

“When she died.”

My fingers hook beneath the duffel strap hanging over the back of a chair. “Sixteen.”

Whiskey doesn’t tilt his head or give me that soft sympathy face people use when they think grief might shatter me.

Thank God.

“How?”

“Cancer.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Quick?”

“No.”

Worse question.

Better answer.

He nods like he understands that difference.

“Your daddy?”

“What about him?”

“Was he always like he is?”

I look at the picture instead of Whiskey. “No. He was protective, but not like this. After Mama died, it got worse.”