Page 36

I have another swallow of Wild Turkey and stare into the bottle, taken aback by how much we’ve had. Actually, by how muchI’vehad. Sam, I realize, has barely touched it. I close my eyes, swaying a little. I can feel myself teetering on the edge of being drunk. One more drink will do the trick.
I tip the bottle back, take two gulps, relish their burn.
Sam’s voice has become distant and tinny, even though she’s right beside me. “You act like you’re totally over what happened, but you’re not.”
“You’re wrong,” I say.
“Then prove it. Tell me his name.”
“We should try to sleep,” I say, looking to the window and the increasingly lightened sky. “It’s late. Or early.”
“There’s no reason to be afraid,” Sam says.
“I’m not.”
“It’s not like it’ll bring him back to life.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you being such a pussy about it?”
She sounds exactly like Janelle. Nudging. Prodding. Goading me into something I don’t want to do. Annoyance swells inside me, tinged with anger. When I try to tamp it down with more Wild Turkey I realize Sam’s taken the bottle from my hands.
“You are, you know,” she says. “Being a pussy.”
“That’s enough, Sam.”
“If you’re so over everything that happened, then a simple name shouldn’t be that big of a deal.”
“I’m going to bed.”
Sam grabs my arm when I try to leave. I jerk free of her grip, slide off the bed, and hit the floor. Hard. Pain spreads up my hip.
Drunk on both Wild Turkey and lack of sleep, it takes some effort to stand. The whiskey sloshes sourly in my stomach. My vision swims. Sam makes things worse by saying, “I wish you’d say it.”
“No.”
“Just once. For me.”
I turn on her, wildly unsteady. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this?”
“Why are you so against it?”
“Because He doesn’t deserve to have His name spoken!” I yell, my voice loud in the predawn silence. “After what He did, no one should say His fucking name!”
Sam’s eyes go wide. She knows she’s pushed me too far.
“You don’t need to freak out about it.”
“Apparently I do,” I say. “I’m doing you a favor by letting you crash here.”
“You are. Don’t think I don’t know that.”
“And if we’re going to be friends, you need to also know that I don’t talk about Pine Cottage. I’ve moved past it.”
Sam looks down, both hands on the bottle, cradling it between her breasts. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to be such a bitch.”
A moment of sobriety arrives as I stand in the doorway, hand on my throbbing hip, trying my damnedest to not look as drunk as I truly am. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is best if you leave in the morning.”