Page 179 of Property of Whiskey

Whiskey comes off the doorframe so fast the lazy slouch disappears like it never existed.

“Don’t.”

Too late.

He picks it up.

The picture was taken at my engagement party. I’m in a blue dress beside Cal, his arm around my waist while I hold up my left hand because whoever took it wanted the ring in the shot.

Whiskey studies it long enough for jealousy to harden every line in his face.

“Who the fuck is that?”

I keep packing. “My ex.”

“You married?”

“No.”

“Engaged?”

“Was.”

He looks from the photograph to me. “You neglected to mention a fiancé.”

I turn. “You neglected to mention loving your baby mama. Call us even.”

His eyes narrow. “That ain’t the same.”

“How?”

“I got a kid with her.”

“And I almost married him.”

That somehow makes his mood worse.

Good.

“You still talk?”

“Sometimes.”

“How often?”

“None of your business.”

“Sounds often.”

“It’s Paradise. Everybody talks to everybody.”

“Who is he?”

“Cal Mercer.”

Recognition crosses his face.

“You know him?”