Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(25)

“Claire, is your accent thicker? I can barely understand you.”

“Sorry.” I cleared my throat, swallowed, and endeavored to make my mouth move normally. “Is this better?”

“Yes. I can understand you better. You were saying something about talking not helping?”

“Cor-rect! All talkin’ does is make you miserable. Like-like digging a hole. And then, wondering how you got to the bottom of it. That’s stupid. I don’t wanna be a miserable person. I want to be a . . . a—one of those—you know, a content person.”

“You want to be content?”

“Content and good. Imma be a content and good person, and so I will be.” I snapped at this for some reason, or tried to.

Sienna made a small sound. “You sound like Jethro, when he quotes his mother, except drunk.”

An image of Bethany Winston materialized in my mind’s eye, smiling at me, telling me I was going to be her forest fairy. But then that image was obscured by another, her face marred with extreme distress, her eyes flashing with disappointment. I swallowed around the sharp emotion, working to distance myself from the echo of shame.

“Claire? Are you okay?” Sienna’s concerned voice dispelled the unpleasant memory.

“His momma had some great sayings, that’s for sure.” I sniffed, working to arrange my mouth into a smile. “Gosh, I wish I hadn’t drunk all that wine.”

“I imagine if my father turned out to be a serial killer, I’d get drunk on a hill in Tuscany too.” I heard her shift on the blanket. “In fact, I think I’ll get drunk on a hill in Tuscany even though my father only kills with dad jokes.”

I grimaced, turning my head toward her as she turned toward me.

“Give me a break.” All the Siennas shrugged. “It’s hard to make murder funny.”

“We should probably stop trying.”

“You’re right. It’s just, I’d like to cheer you up and I can’t think of anything hilarious to say when the reason you’re sad is so freaking depressing.”

“My father ain’t the reason I’m sad,” I said, because: wine + wine + wine + wine = honesty. “I mean, I’ve known who he is my whole life. He’s the scariest person on this earth! If I never saw him again, I’d be grateful. Just thinking about him, it’s hard.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. We don’t have to—”

“No, no. If we’re going to have this conversation, we should do it now.” I smacked the ground with my hand way too hard. That was going to hurt later. “I’m drunk! And that helps a lot. Point is, I’m not surprised by what my daddy did. I don’t mourn for him. I’m so sad—so sad—for the families. I was scared for Simone and Roscoe when I heard what happened to them. Thank God they’re both out of the woods now. But Razor Dennings has nothing to do with my mood. If I let that bastard impact my mood, I’d be hiding half the time.” The world moved up and down, so I stopped nodding. “Maybe the whole time.”

“Really?” she asked, her tone telling me she didn’t believe me. “He doesn’t impact your mood?”

“Cor-rect.”

“Then why are you out here in the dark?”

“You said yourself, it’s pretty out here.” I threw my hand at the sky, it then came back and hit me in the stomach.

“Then why are you drunk?”

“This wine is good, and a surprising goat tattoo caught me unawares. I’d say you should have some, but I already drank it all.”

“Goat tattoo?” She chuckled, but said, “And yet, you are sad, Claire.”

My chest ached, cutting through the inebriation fog. My chest hadn’t stopped with the aching since I found out Billy had arrived. Our interaction in his room had only intensified the ache, which was why I was presently drunk. I just wanted it to stop.

After he’d told me to keep my distance—which I understood, and accepted, and would 100 percent do—the ache had become alternately spiky and hot and then dull and painful. It was over. I’d waited too long. I’d been an idiot for too damn long and Billy had finally, finally moved on.

Well then. Good for him. He deserved all the happiness. He’d deserved all the happiness years ago and he’d always deserved better than me. So I’d toasted to his happiness four times, and now I was as drunk as Flo McClure had been the Christmas she’d told all of us she was a lesbian.

“I guess I am sad.” My chin wobbled. Dammit. I was happy for Billy, but that didn’t mean I was happy for myself.

“Why are you sad?” She turned, lying on her side to face me. “Talk to Sienna. Tell me everything. Maybe I can help. Is it about the news?”

“No.” I waved my hand through the air. “Don’t care what they call me. ‘Devil’s Daughter.’” I huffed a weak laugh. “Been called worse.”

“I know what it’s like when they all gang up, it can be exhausting.”

“Not the newspapers, don’t care.”

“If anyone can help you not care about what the media is saying, it’s me. I’m a pro.”

“Sienna. It’s not the media. It’s—” I stopped myself, my face crumpling, so I covered it with my hand.