Page 201 of Property of Whiskey

“Yet you keep calling me.”

She kisses my cheek before passing Twila and patting her arm.

“Good luck.”

“With him?” Twila asks.

“With Wren.”

Twila’s smile softens. “Thanks.”

Mama pauses at the door. She leaves before anybody can make the moment weirder.

I lock up again and turn around to find Twila already crouched beside the coffee table gathering Wren’s drawings.

“Leave those.”

“She’ll step on them when she wakes up.”

“She drew them.”

“Exactly. She’ll blame you.”

I stare at her. “You got kids I don’t know about?”

“No.”

“Then how the fuck do you know that?”

“I have a father.”

“Right.”

She stacks the drawings neatly, caps the purple marker, then bends over Wren and pulls the blanket higher over one small shoulder. She doesn’t make a production out of it or look around to see if I noticed.

She just does it.

I should be the one cleaning up after my kid. Instead, I’m standing in my own living room watching Twila Dix move around it like caring for something here came naturally.

That’s dangerous.

The whole damn thing is dangerously close to getting my daughter too attached to a woman who may not stay around.

Twila looks up. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s twice.”

“You keeping count?”

“Yes.”

“Deputy habit?”

“No. Woman habit.”

I step over and slide one arm beneath Wren’s knees, the other behind her back. She stirs the second I lift her.