“Refill?” she asks Lo. He shakes his head. “No, I’m good.” “Cheers.” I raise my glass at him, and he watches me with narrowed fucking eyes. I put the rim to my lips. Stop me, Lo. This is a high stakes game of chicken. And he doesn’t move a muscle or say a fucking word. I tip the glass back, and the sweet taste of Fizz mixes with the sharpness of whiskey. Scotch whiskey. He drank alcohol.
