Raylan was a Marshal, nearly 20 years at this point and despite the upset of sharp elitism teeth on his mannerisms, he'd learned to read people and situations rather well. The Whitly's in whole were no exception.
"They're gonna find out," he reasoned. "And I'm not saying roll out with banners and post it in the New York Times, but your mother and sister are going to assume the lewdest. It's better to give them a breadcrumb and the truth of whiskey, the idea of spontaneous ideas, than let them let them run wild with their assumptions, considering their interest and loving harassment of you." Raylan fixed him with a serious gaze.
"They want you happy; there's nothing wrong with that and if what I've seen is any indication, you're better off giving them a slightly satisfactory grain of truth rather than denying it completely and letting them pick you apart."
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"They're gonna find out," he reasoned. "And I'm not saying roll out with banners and post it in the New York Times, but your mother and sister are going to assume the lewdest. It's better to give them a breadcrumb and the truth of whiskey, the idea of spontaneous ideas, than let them let them run wild with their assumptions, considering their interest and loving harassment of you." Raylan fixed him with a serious gaze.
"They want you happy; there's nothing wrong with that and if what I've seen is any indication, you're better off giving them a slightly satisfactory grain of truth rather than denying it completely and letting them pick you apart."
"But that's just my view from over here."