Of course, now I’m wondering whether having a broken arm merits a second coupon, the guilt twisting deep in my chest, intertwined with anger at Charlie, because I specifically said no sliding rocks and she still threw caution to the wind and now Rusty’s paying—
“Yes,” she says. “Can I get it myself?”
I step into her room and take the glass.
“Not a chance, kiddo,” I say, because I know what she’s really after — most of her uncles are still downstairs after Sunday Dinner, and she thinks they’re having fun without her. “I’ll be right back.”
Rusty sighs dramatically as I leave, but she doesn’t put up too much of a fight. I head to the kitchen and get her a new glass.
As I walk back through the living room, I realize everyone’s quiet and looking at me.
“What?” I ask.
Levi, Eli, Seth, and my mom all raise their eyebrows and shake their heads in the exact same way. They’re clearly up to something.
“Sure,” I say, and head back upstairs to give Rusty her fresh water.
She does her best to put off going to sleep: she needs to say goodnight to Grandma again. She wants socks. Her pants are itchy. She needs a different stuffed animal, she has to tell Seth something really important, she left the milk out.
I shut it all down, kiss her one more time, and close the door on her protests.
Usually, I don’t. Usually I have a little more patience with her, but not tonight. Not after yesterday, when Charlie got her arm broken after the knife thing and after nearly getting us arrested.
Not after I made Charlie cry and run away from me like that. Not after watching her leave felt like someone sucking all the air out of the room.
Ten minutes later Seth left the room and came back with my keys. Charlie texted him. She wouldn’t even text me to give me my keys back, and I have no idea how she got home. I’ve been telling myself I don’t care.
When I get back to the living room, they’re all still sitting there, and I stop dead in my tracks.
“What?” I ask again, more sharply than I meant to, but they’re all watching me like I’m the latest addition to the freak show, and I’m over it.
My brothers exchange glances, and finally Seth shrugs. I shove one hand through my hair, patience hanging by a string, cross my arms in front of my chest.
“You,” he says, walking up to me and putting one hand on my shoulder, “are coming with us.”
“Coming where?” I ask.
“My place,” Levi says.
“Did you not just see me put my daughter to bed?” I ask, jerking a thumb over my shoulder. “Whatever the hell you want, just do it—”
“I’ve got Rusty,” my mom says. “You go on with your brothers.”
“I have work to do,” I say.
I have no desire whatsoever to go to Levi’s cabin in the woods and do whatever the fuck they think I’m going to do. I want to go back upstairs, to my own room, and I want to sulk and be angry at Charlie and worry about Tuesday’s hearing and wallow in my guilt about Rusty.
“No, you don’t,” Seth says.
“Who asked you?”
“We can lift you,” Eli chimes in. “There’s three of us and one of you.”
I grind my teeth together, annoyance and irritation and anger at everyone in my life gnawing at me from the inside.
“I don’t want to go to Levi’s house,” I say, as patient and slowly as I can. “Right now, I just want to be alone—”
“Fascinating,” interrupts Seth.
I consider punching him. Not that hard, just hard enough to make him fuck off.
“Unfortunately, you’re terrible at knowing what’s good for you so we’re taking charge now,” he continues. “And you’ll be coming with us.”
I look from one face to another, all wearing the same expression: total sincerity.
Shit. They mean it. They’re actually prepared to lift me up and take me out of here if I don’t come of my own free will. For a second I think about just punching one of them — a gentle punch, they can take it — and then running upstairs and locking my door before the others catch me, but I only give that tactic about a thirty percent chance of succeeding.
“Fine,” I mutter, and head for the door.I stare at the brown liquid in the tumbler in front of me as Levi re-corks the bottle and puts it back on the shelf.
“How long have you been barrel-aging your own whiskey?” I ask, sniffing it. “Where have you been barrel-aging your whiskey?”
It smells good. Almost good enough to make me forget that I’m mad with them for dragging me to Levi’s mountain man shack.
Okay, it’s not a shack. It’s actually a pretty nice house, and he did build it himself. But I’m still pissed, and I’ve sure never seen barrels of whiskey anywhere.