By the time Simon returned from the barn, I’d tipped the bottle back more times than once and could see the etched numbers on the bottom through the liquid left over. “Dani.” He touched my shoulder, and my head bobbled toward the sound of his soft, disappointed voice. “Hi, you.” “I thought you quit drinking.” My laugh caught on a sob and I took another swig. “I did.” “Then what are you doing?” “Nobody likes a quitter.” He reached for the bottle, and I jerked it to the side. “Don’t touch my stuff, you naughty boy.” I pulled the whiskey back for another big gulp. “You would drink, too, if you knew.” “Why don’t you tell me then?” I wasn’t a drunken confession kind of girl. “Because.” There had to be more. I snapped one eye shut and focused on finishing the sentence.
