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“Technically, this is not asking for a favor. This is asking for trouble. If I don’t say anything to squash this then other people will start to believe that bullshit.” And I hate lies. I’ve had enough of them to last a lifetime.

“I’ll fix it.”

“When?”

“As soon as I can.”

“By tomorrow afternoon at the latest, Maverick.”

“Alright.”

“I mean it.”

“I said alright, didn’t I?”

He did, but I’ve never trusted a Calhoun in my life and I’m not about to start now.

“Goodnight,” I say firmly.

“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon at the pool hall,” he says, then hesitates like he’s going to say something else, but in the end, he doesn’t.

I remain on the porch until the taillights of his truck disappear. My damn coffee is cold now which irritates me even more.

I go inside to pour it out and lean against the kitchen counter. As if the night couldn’t get any worse, my mother’s name shows up on my phone screen. I hope there isn’t fresh drama.

“Mom,” I greet, and wait.

“Your father,” she says through clenched teeth before drawing in a deep breath. “He’s going to be the death of me if I don’t get him first.”

For a while, she’d seemed to move on after the divorce, but the pain keeps circling back. I think it’s because Floozy keeps stirring shit up.

I put her on speaker while I fill the coffee maker and add the grounds. “What’d he do now?”

“You know Floozy is pregnant.”

Yeah, I know. And rumor says my dad is the father. But that’s not the truth.

“He had the nerve…the nerve…to come to me and ask if I had any of your or your sisters’ baby clothes in storage!”

My heart squeezes at the hurt behind her words. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

She’s silent for a second.

I blink hard and fast to keep from crying. The coffee finishes and I pour myself a cup. This time, I add a liberal dose of flavored creamer because I crave something sweet when I’m upset.

“What are you doing? I heard you pouring something. Are you having a drink? Alcohol only dulls the pain, Sweetie. And getting rip roaring drunk is not a good look. Take it from Floozy.”

“It’s coffee, Mama.”

“That’ll keep you up all night, and it makes your skin age faster. Though I suppose coffee’s better than drinking that vodka. Your uncle James drank it like he was a funnel and looked like a prune before he got all those wrinkles removed. The doctor pulled his skin too tight and now he looks surprised all the time.”

“Mama—”

“And don’t forget Edna Rose. Bless her heart.”

Edna Rose was a former neighbor in Lucky River who was difficult to get along with and then sided with my father during the divorce.

“Mama, Edna didn’t drink alcohol like Uncle James.”