Penelope

Every time Cassian buys a bottle of whisky, I know it's been a rough day. After our long hours at Utterly Uncorked, Cassian and I stop at the liquor store. We also grab plant-based burgers, fries, and onion rings from A&W. Tonight, our goal is to get drunk and eat carcinogenic food. Fast food and alcohol, although they're far from healthy, can always remedy even the worst of moods.

"She's hopeless, Pen," he sighs, placing three perfect ice cubes in his glass. It's frosted along the sides, making his drink look sophisticated and expensive. I push my glass towards him. It's a stemless wine glass, so it doesn't compare to the beauty of Cassian's drink.

As he drops three ice cubes into my glass, chewing on a fry, I convince myself only the contents of the glass matter. While I'm not a fan of whisky, I know how efficient it is. After I finish my burger and help Cassian with onion rings, I've got one goal: to drink until I can no longer think. Today's events were stressful and disappointing. I wasn't expecting Ophelia's reaction to be positive. That would have been far-fetched. I was, however, expecting some respect. Not because we're cousins, but because we're two businesswomen fighting for our place in a male-dominated society. I've never understood why women beat each other up with words and useless, derogatory slurs as opposed to showing support and kindness.

She was also inconsiderate to Patrick, which caused me to grind my teeth. I'm still trying to find comfort in our DNA results. I'm still trying to get to know Patrick. But that doesn't mean he deserves disrespect. Although he sprung the news on me, he's been calm and understanding ever since.

I flash Cassian a weak smile. "I don't know what to say," I reply. "I'm sorry about Ophelia. That must've been disappointing." Daring to reach out, I take his hand in mine and squeeze it. His skin is soft and warm. "You did the right thing, Cassian. Omitting people from your life who don't know their morals is fine. It forces them to take a step back and assess what they're doing wrong. I also appreciate it. Thanks for supporting me."

He cocks his head to the side and stares at me. I can't decipher the mishmash of emotions on his face. His features are lax, but the left corner of his mouth is pinched to the side. "How're you holding up? Her words were terrible." He squeezes my hand with just as much force, and a rush of heat surges through my body. With my free hand, I bring the drink to my lips and take a long, burning sip. The whisky is so strong I want to cough.

"I'm okay," I reply, releasing his hand. From the greasy takeout container, I grab two onion rings and drench them in ketchup. I pop one in my mouth and chew for several seconds as I organize my thoughts. Ophelia's words hurt, but that's because I can't comprehend why she would be against Patrick finding his sister. My parents raised me to support family members like Gabriel and the rest of my cousins. When Gabriel said he wanted to become a chef and give up his business scholarship, I supported him. It's what you're supposed to do with family members.

After I've swallowed my food, I take another sip of my drink. "Ophelia hurt my feelings, but I won't allow her words to dictate how I go about my life. She's allowed to have her opinions—even if they're wrong."

Cassian snorts softly. "You think I did the right thing? Because I feel like an asshole for leaving her sitting there alone."

"Yes," I nod. "Feeling bad proves you're human, Cass."

After he's finished making his drink, he rummages through the greasy paper bag. Half of my burger is still encompassed in its greasy wrapper. I was so hungry when we ordered the burgers, I devoured half of it. He pulls it out first and hands it over to me, followed by the fries. He offers me some, but I decline. I don't know if hanging out with Gemma has made me prefer onion rings over fries, but I love the crunchy, salty goodness of them.

"God," he groans through a mouthful of plant-based burger. "Why are these so good?"

"I don't know," I reply. I glance down at my food, wishing I could savour it instead of devouring it. Although I try to consume more veggies and legumes than meat and dairy, I gave myself a cheat day. If there's one thing I miss, it's cheese.

Why is cheese so good?

"Even I'll admit," Cassian says, "cheese is difficult to eliminate from your diet. I miss it the most on nachos. That being said, there's a delicious alternative you can make with cashews and nutritional yeast. Hanna introduced me to that option."

Heat spreads across my cheeks. "Did I say that aloud?"

"You did," Cassian smiles.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I turn back to the food and pop the other onion ring in my mouth. It leaves a smear of ketchup next to my burger, which I scoop up with my finger and lick clean. Ketchup reigns supreme in the condiment category. My love for ketchup aside, I wonder if Cassian knows how his words and actions affect me. That his small smile makes me weak in the knees or his touch sends shivers down my spine. I wish I could find the courage to say something to him. But he's too damn hard to analyze.

"So," I say, poking at my burger. "What are we doing tonight?"

With a subtle smirk on his lips, Cassian picks up his bottle of whisky and gives it a shake. "We're getting drunk, Pen."

I pick up my glass of whiskey and knock it against the bottle. "I'll drink to that."

With a glimmer in his eyes, Cassian tosses back a mouthful of whisky from the bottle. I'm unsure of how he doesn't cringe or choke on the burning liquid. Even with years of practice, I don't think I could handle it in large doses.

I take a sip of my drink, meeting Cassian's heated gaze. Although I have a bad feeling about getting drunk with him, I'm past the point of caring. My decision sounds foolish. Substantial consequences could take place if our decisions are folly. But I deserve a night off. After today's dramatic events, I want to forget everything that happened today—even my period of forgetfulness is short.

Ready to take another sip, I raise the glass to my lips. When no liquid burns my tongue, I frown and stare at the contents. When I only see ice cubes, my eyebrows raise in surprise. Okay. I drank that faster than I intended.

Feeling a buzz in the back of my mind, I slide my glass across the counter to Cassian. He catches it, causing the ice cubes to clink against the glass.

"Fill it up," I say, flicking my gaze to his.

While Cassian is filling my drink, I pop the last portion of burger in my mouth, savouring the taste.

* * *

I roll onto my back and stare at the popcorn ceiling. My head and shoulders are hanging from the edge of the couch and each time I move, the living room spins. "Why does the room spin when you're drunk?" I slur.

Cassian, with a drink in hand, crawls over the back of the couch and lays down beside me, his head hanging over the edge. He tries to take a sip of his drink, but because he's upside down, it spills all over him. "Fuck," he sputters, wiping the alcohol from his face. He sets the glass down. "That wasn't very smart."

"No," I giggle, "it wasn't."

His frown deepens as he wrings his hair free of liquid. He smells like a distillery, but it doesn't bother me. I'm feeling blurry, but also content. There's also a possibility I smell little different. "God," he murmurs. "I need a fucking haircut." With negligence, Cassian lets his hair fall free and turns to face me. "Alcohol affects our ears."

"What?" I snort, turning my face to his. We're so close the tips of our noses are touching. "That makes little sense."

Cassian draws his bottom lip between his teeth as he rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead. A few drops of whisky are still present, which is why his skin glimmers beneath the dim living room lighting. "I know. But I think Jake told me about it once." He drops his hands to his chest and groans. His eyes flutter closed, and I stare his the long lashes tickling his hard cheekbones. "I think the blood is rushing to my head. The room is spinning."

I give his shoulder a light slap. "We're drunk, you fool."

"I know," he laughs, his smile brightening up the room. "I enjoy being drunk." He peeks through his luscious lashes. "In moderation," he clarifies. As he turns his face in my direction, a strand of hair falls across his face. "Goddamn hair."

An idea sparks in my head.

"I could give you a haircut."

Cassian raises his eyebrows. "Really?"

Using my core strength, I pull myself into a sitting position and bob my head up and down. My movements are so aggressive my ponytail comes undone. "Yeah! I've trimmed my own split ends before. Your hair would be easy to work with."

Cassian sits up, his stomach muscles contracting beneath his tight-fitting white T-shirt. His smile is lopsided and his eyes are glazed with the effects of alcohol. Much like myself, Cassian is wasted. "Okay," he slurs, sliding off the couch. "I'll grab the scissors from the kitchen. Be right back."

Gripping the edge of the couch, Cassian climbs to his feet and stumble to the kitchen. I watch every step he takes, fascinated by how he still has the brain capacity to prevent himself from tumbling. If I stand up, I'm going to tumble over. Every time I move, I feel like I'm on a ship from Pirates of the Caribbean. Not that I would have an issue with that. William Turner—AKA Orlando Bloom—was my childhood crush.

I giggle to myself, grabbing a handful of blueberries from the bowl on the coffee table. Blueberries were the only snack Cassian could find that didn't require using utensils to prep. I pop a few in my mouth.

"Okay," Cassian says. "I have the scissors." He sits down on the ground, directly in front of me. After he's set the scissors down on the coffee table, he hooks my legs over his shoulders, and then tilts his head back, smiling up at me. "Come on, Pen, let's see what you've got."

I stuff the rest of the blueberries in my mouth, wiping any juice from my hands onto my jeans. When my hands are clean, I run my fingers through Cassian's long, soft hair. I've always been envious of his hair. It's soft and glossy and thick. I thread my fingers through it, massaging his scalp with my fingertips.

"Mmm," he hums. "That feels good."

Smiling, I grab the scissors and trim Cassian's hair. As a basic outline, I take off about four inches, cutting it so his hair is chin-length. My cuts are jagged, but when Cassian glances into the TV, his head bobs with approval. Despite my mindset being numb from the effects of alcohol, I'm unsure of what to do next. Somewhere, behind the buzz, I know I should put the scissors down and stop before I make a drastic mistake. But when Cassian tilts his head up and smiles at me, encouraging me to continue on, I do so. I don't want to disappoint him.

With my tongue between my teeth and my concentration focused on Cassian's hair and my shaky hands, I continue to cut his hair, ignoring the strands that pool in my lap.