Truly, Madly, Whiskey(2)

There wasn’t much changing necessary. She swallowed against that reality. She was not only hot for the guy, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. The hardest part was that over the past eight-plus months, he’d grown on her like a third arm—exciting, reliable, and uncomfortable all at once. He was cocky and arrogant when it came to pushing himself into her life, which should have made her wary of him, but she was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Because he was also a loyal, generous friend and funny in ways that made her wonder what it might be like to experience all those attributes tangled together—in her bed.

Ugh. She really needed to stop thinking about him.

Her phone vibrated again with a text from Gemma. She opened it and found a picture of Bear painting. Great. Now she’d never stop thinking about him. His muscular, tattooed arm was over his head as he painted along the edge of the window. His shirt clung to his broad back, tapering down and disappearing into a pair of low-slung jeans that hugged his frustratingly hot ass. Another text rolled in. Enjoying watching my man paint. Thought you might want to see yours.

She rolled her eyes. Gemma knew she wasn’t with Bear in that way. She was meeting Gemma and Truman after dinner to help paint their living room in preparation for their backyard wedding, and she knew Bear would be there. Their close-knit group included all four Whiskey siblings, so Bear was always around, like an itch she shouldn’t scratch. Her stomach fluttered, and she groaned. The last thing she needed in her busy, not-living-in-a-trailer-park life, was to be lusting after a man. Especially one who assumed he owned her.

She shoved her phone in her pocket, inhaled deeply, and faced her mother’s mustard-yellow trailer, wishing she could climb back into her car and return to her normal life.

Each of the trailers had a tiny plot of land out front. Most had turned to dirt over the years from being trampled or driven over. But before her father had been killed in a car accident, he’d set enormous rocks around the perimeter of their lot, where he and Crystal had planted a garden. Now that tiny plot of land was overgrown with long grass and the type of prickly bushes she’d always given a wide berth, as if the branches were gnarled claws that could capture her as she walked by.

The whole complex feels like that.

She stepped onto the musty indoor-outdoor carpeting beneath a green awning that hung from the side of the trailer. Jed had put it up when they were teenagers. The stench of cigarettes and sweat hung in the air. Two ancient lawn chairs and a plastic table sat at the far end of the carpet. Outside living at its finest.

She hesitated, wishing Jed would hurry up, and finally reached for the metal handle of the screen door, which had no screen.

“Jeddy? That you?” Her mother’s raspy voice might sound sexy if her speech weren’t slurred and the raspiness weren’t clearly the sandpaper sound of a throat worn down by too many cigarettes.

Crystal stepped inside, assaulted by the earlier stench, only a hundred times stronger. Habit had her breathing through her mouth, which seemed less repulsive than smelling the rancid air with every inhalation. Her eyes skirted over the dark paneled walls, low-pile carpeting, and plaid sofa, hallmarks of her youth. The same green and yellow curtains that were there when they’d moved in hung from metal rods, darkening the windows. The two wooden chairs Crystal and her father had painted bright aqua the first summer they’d lived there were now chipped and marred. They were the last project she and her father had worked on together. Two empty beer bottles sat on the coffee table beside an empty carton of cigarettes, the top of which was torn off. Welcome home.

“Chrissy?” Her mother stood by the stove stirring something in a big pot. A cigarette hung from her lips, as if it had grown roots. “I was expecting Jeddy.” Ashes floated to the floor as she spoke. Pamela Moon was a blond, drunken Peg Bundy lookalike, from her overly teased hair, pink tank top, black leggings, wide white belt, and high heels to the way she carried herself with one hand constantly waving.

Crystal cringed at the name she’d given up when she’d gone off to college. It had been years, and her mother hadn’t noticed. Either that or she simply hadn’t cared. Crystal imagined it was a little of both.

“Sorry, Mom. Just me.”

She hoped her mother remembered they were supposed to have dinner. Sometimes she forgot. Crystal used to bring dinner for their monthly visits, but her mother complained about everything, and she’d given up trying.

Her mother grabbed a beer bottle from the counter and took a long swig. Crystal gauged her unsteadiness, tallying the five empty bottles in sight and knowing it probably wasn’t the day’s total count. Her mother had gone downhill after they’d lost their father to a drunk driver, which made no sense to Crystal. Her father’s death had had a profound effect on her in too many ways to count, but most importantly, Crystal was careful not to drink too much. At first she’d thought her mother’s drinking was a coping mechanism, but as the months, then years, had passed, she’d realized she had a problem and had encouraged her to go to AA and seek help. Her mother had ignored her efforts, turning cold and bitter. Crystal had no idea how she functioned with the amount of alcohol she consumed.

Crystal peered into the dark mass in the pot. “What are you making?”

“Chili. You hungry?” More ashes drifted to the floor.

“Yeah, sure.” She’d push the food around on her plate and praise her mother’s cooking. Then she’d wrap it up and leave it for her mother to eat tomorrow. She set her bag on the coffee table, settling in for the next hour, hoping it would race by.