Walking into the house after Huxley, I head to the office to find him pouring himself a glass of bourbon. Most people just pour a little bit but he had a glass full of the brown liquid. I close the door behind me and walk over to sit on top of my desk.
"Want to talk about it?" I ask him as I watch him down the drink in his hand like it was water.
He reaches down and starts to pour another glass as he shakes his head. "There is nothing to talk about. I said my peace back then," he states as he puts the lid back on the container,
"Well, you downing dad's favorite bourbon says otherwise. He is going to wonder why it's almost nonexistent now," I say as I pull my legs up to cross them.
