He stared at me.
I opened the passenger door. I got out of the truck. I unscrewed the cap of the bottle, and I turned it upside down, and I poured it out onto the gravel. It glugged out of the neck and splashed brown across the stones and steamed a little in the cold. It took a long time. Longer than you’d think.
When it was empty, I set the bottle on the hood of the truck.
Across the lot, Sam was walking toward us.
Greg got out of the truck. He stood there with his hands at his sides. Sam stopped about five feet away. Nobody said anything for a long time.
“I didn’t drink,” Greg said finally. “I wanted to. I’m not going to lie to you. I wanted to really bad. But I didn’t.”
Sam looked at the empty bottle on the hood. He looked at the dark wet patch on the gravel. He looked at his father.
