Pick Your Poison by Leann Sweeney

told me the last time we talked. I haven’t had a drink in one hundred and forty days, so I’m doing my part.”
    “That’s what you keep saying.”
    “It’s the truth.”
    “Sorry. Guess you have been trying,” I muttered. But why in hell should I be sorry about anything? He was the one who owed the apologies.
    I decided to retreat from this precarious ground by changing the subject. “By the way, Kate and I have decided to sell the house. She’s moving in with Terry, and I’m not sure I want to live here alone.”
    “Don’t, then,” he said quickly. “Let me move back in.”
    “No way. We failed miserably and completely as a couple, and I like to think I learn from my mistakes.”
    “One of these days I’ll convince you I’m a changed man and you’ll reconsider.”
    What he didn’t know was that I had reconsidered, and then reconsidered the reconsideration. Despite all our fights, despite the long nights when he left here and I didn’t know where he was, despite words that hung like a venomous cloud long after they were spoken, I still wanted Steven. But wanting someone and loving someone are very different.
    “Listen,” I said, hoping to ease the tension between us. “I need some work done on the house in Galveston before we get any further into the hurricane season.”
    “No kidding. I helped your daddy cart some boxes over there a few months before he died and told him as much.”
    “Daddy actually let you help him with something?”
    “You know something, Abby? He and I got along a whole lot better after you and I divorced. Guess he figured he had you back where he wanted you.”
    “Point to Steven,” I replied, trying to sound like his jab didn’t bother me. “Do you have any big jobs pending?”
    “I’m building one house, got appointments to talk with a few people about contracts. Nothing too time-consuming.”
    “So you could look the place over, see what needs fixing?”
    “I don’t know. I might brush up against you, or touch your hair, or smile at you too much if we work together. Get you all pissed off.”
    “Quit it, Steven. We can be friends.”
    “Sure. Friends,” he said, unsmiling.
    After I gave him a key to the Galveston property, he left, still moping, and as I went upstairs to wash the Shade dust from my hair, I told myself I’d made a mistake asking him for help. But like Daddy used to say, it’s always easier to borrow trouble than give it away.

6
    The next morning Kate and I decided to take Willis’s advice and inform Aunt Caroline about our plans to sell the house. She arrived an hour after we called her, and the three of us gathered in the formal living room—or the “parlor,” as Aunt Caroline liked to call it. Filled with antique end tables, a brocade love seat, tapestry chairs, and a grand piano, the room seemed old-fashioned and pretentious to me, and I hardly ever spent time there. Knowing this conversation would be difficult didn’t make me feel any more comfortable.
    Aunt Caroline’s white hair framed her small, pointy face, and I wondered if she’d fit in another face-lift since I last saw her. Pretty soon she was going to run out of skin to tuck behind her ears.
    Kate broke the news about our decision, and Aunt Caroline’s reaction was swift and strong.
    “You have to be joking,” she said. “This is outrageous.”
    “Now that Daddy’s gone, we have to get on with our lives,” I said. “Kate has plans, and so do I.”
    “Your father would consider this a betrayal. He came to this city dirt-poor, with nothing but the clothes on his back. When he finally earned enough to build in River Oaks, he felt like he’d accomplished something important.”
    “I’m sorry you disagree with us,” I said. “But this house is too big for me to handle alone, and Kate—”
    “I could move in with you, then.” She followed this ghastly suggestion with a sigh. “From a business standpoint, selling my house makes far more sense. After that