Page 16 of Whiskey Kisses

Nodding, she bends to pick up her purse. That’s when I see that her hands are shaking. “Let’s go.”

We walk in silence, the night air cooling my sweat. I keep peeking at Evie, unable to reconcile this newer, fiercer version of her with the timid, insecure girl she used to be, but she won’t look at me. Still, I can’t help but feel a swell of admiration mixed with something else—a warmth spreading through my chest that I can’t quite define.

6.Evie

Exhausted, I opt to sleep in on Sunday morning, murmuring prayers into my pillow instead of at Opal’s church. Last night plays over and over in my head. The fight, and then booking it out of there with Tristan, neither of us speaking until we got to my truck.

“Are you okay?” he’d asked again, sounding all worried as I unlocked the door.

“Yeah.” I’d slipped into the driver’s seat, barely looking at him. I didn’t want him to see my still-shaking hands. Didn’t want him to know how scared I’d been just now, and not just for myself. Cole has never actually hurt me, but he’s crazy enough that he would kill Tristan.

“Why didn’t you tell me you?—”

“Get home safe, okay? Go on.” I’d closed the door in his face and started my car, berating myself for not listening to my instincts, the ones telling me to avoid Tristan Kelly. Turned out it’d been for reasons other than what I’d expected, but still.

“Give me your number at least,” he’d demanded through the glass.

Why? So we could continue rehashing the good ol’ days, or better yet, discuss my ass-kicking skills?Nope. His motives were no better than my father’s—he wanted the distillery, nothing less and nothing more. Ihadn’t felt like explaining any of this, so I drove away, leaving him on the sidewalk, awash in the purple glow of a neon sign.

I feel kind of bad about that now, but Tristan’s a big boy. I’m sure he’s fine.

Juniper leaps onto the bed, joining Poppy, and we cuddle quietly while I scroll through my socials. It’s rare I get slow mornings, and I savor this one, eventually bringing coffee and cinnamon toast back to bed.

My bathroomalways smells like royal jasmine at this time of year, thanks to Mama’s varieties climbing the latticework outside. It always reminds me of my Great Aunt Myrtle, may she rest in peace. She had the garden of all gardens, a sprawling, verdant paradise that seemed to go on forever in an estate on Whitemarsh Island. She was my father’s aunt by blood, but Mama was the one she adored. She treated her like a daughter, teaching her all there was to know about tending a garden for usefulness as well as beauty.

This is why Mama’s own gardens were so lovely despite our urban locale. Our lot is big by city standards, but it’s still penned in by streets and wrought iron gates, nothing like Aunt Myrtle’s country estate. And yet it thrived under Mama’s care, rows of vegetables and herbs behind the kitchen, neat shrubs along the perimeter of the gate, and lush, colorful blooms that attracted so much attention that it was typical to see tourists snapping photos from the sidewalk. Mama’s garden routinely won local awards, something she didn’t aspire to but appreciated all the same.

Maribelle did ballet from day one, but I preferred tagging along behind Mama with my little shovels and gloves. When she saw that it was more than just a phase, she and Aunt Myrtle began teaching me all of their secrets. Aunt Myrtle was ancient by that point, but she loved sharing her garden with me. She gave me my first book on tinctures, a dog-eared, yellowing tome that looked like it predated Jesus. She liked to tell me stories of the old ways, back before people went to the doctor for “any old thing,” when they relied on what they had in their own backyards to heal them.

Drying my face, I take one last flowery whiff and shut the window. My phone’s vibrating when I get back. It’s Daddy, who’s been making himself scarce since Tristan came by the other day. For once, he leaves a text instead of a voicemail.

Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow at Callista’s.

My treat.

I stare at the words, ambivalent. Daddy knows that Callista’s is my favorite. Either he’s going to try and butter me up to do what he wants, or he’s finally realized that we can’t keep on going like this. That would be nice, but I’m betting on option number one.

Standingup from my heirloom tomatoes, I stretch out the kinks that’ve accumulated from hours of hunching over. It’s a scorcher of a day, and I’m dewy with sweat—okay, I’m drenched—but I’m in my happy place. Honeybees bouncing around the roses, sunlight twinkling through the trees, my hands sinking into the rich, dark soil—this is my meditation. Wiping my brow with the back of my hand, I reach for my canteen and finish off my water. I’ve been weeding, pruning, and plucking for hours now, a bounty of tomatoes, bell peppers, chard, English cucumbers, and basil in my basket. I make a mean salad, but most of this will go to Opal, her mom, and other friends that appreciate homegrown goodness.

“Evie,” a male voice calls.

Oh, for the love.Sounds like Tristan’s out on the sidewalk. Brushing my hands off on my leggings, I walk around to the front of the house. Sure enough, he’s on the other side of the gate, peering through like a weirdo. A really cute weirdo.

“Nice hat,” he says as I get closer.

I finger the edge of my wide-brimmed straw hat, glad the heat’s got my face redder than a stupid blush ever will. “It’s either that or a third-degree sunburn.”

“It’s adorable.” He grins, jerking his chin. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“What’re you doing here?” I reply instead, looking him over from the safety of my sunglasses. He’s wearing athletic shorts and a white t-shirt with fresh white Nikes, his loose curls pushed back by sunglasses of his own.

“What’d you expect? You just ran off last night.” He grips the wrought iron, bottle-green eyes dancing over me like he’s making sure I’m still in one piece.

“I didn’t run off; I drove off. Safe and sound. What’d you think was gonna happen?” I ask, bemused.

“I don’t know, but I’m assuming that asshole knows where you live,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning down.

Balancing on one foot, I scratch my leg with the other. “He does, unfortunately.”

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