Page 217 of Property of Whiskey

I already know I’m going to enjoy this. “What was?”

“I came out bleeding, soaked in bourbon, concussed enough I tried to fight an oak barrel.”

I stare at him.

“The barrel?”

“Looked aggressive.”

“It was a barrel.”

“Had it coming.”

A laugh escapes me. “Please tell me somebody saw this.”

“Whole fucking club saw it. Some asshole said the whiskey fought back.” His mouth tightens like he’s still offended twenty years later. “I told ‘em it was bourbon.”

“Oh, no.”

“Prez looked at me and said, ‘Whiskey it is.’”

I start laughing harder. “Anyone would be pissed somebody called bourbon whiskey?”

“Kentucky has standards.”

“You got named because you lost a fight with a barrel.”

“I did not lose.”

“Did the barrel have a scar?”

He gives me a look. “Fuck you.”

“I’m trying not to wake the kid.”

“Smartass.”

My laughter finally settles as his hand loosens around my wrist and slides down my back. His thumb catches on something low near my hip.

I know what he found without looking. The little dandelion sits low on my back, black seeds blowing off one side and disappearing toward my hip.

“Dandelion.”

“Got eyes.” His thumb traces beside it, careful not to turn the touch into a joke. “Why?”

I go still. “Mama.” The sleep leaves his face.

I look down at his chest instead of him. “I got it when I turned eighteen. First tattoo I could sign for myself. Mama used to tell me dandelions were only weeds if you forgot to make a wish.”

He looks like he wants to ask more. For once, he doesn’t. His thumb traces one of the little seeds.

“I knew wishing was bullshit.”

“Still made one?”

“Yeah.”

“What’d you wish for?”