“Pretty Little Liars” recap 3.19: Whiskey Lullaby


Hanna drives back to the barn where Caleb’s uncle-dad lives to confirm her suspicions of his paternity. Uncle Jamie pontificates the various ways he is unfit to be a father, including but not limited to the fact that he let his sister rip a four-year-old out of his bed — away from his Pound Puppies! — and drop his ass off at an orphanage. I hate Uncle Jamie. I think he would have just been a regular asshole to me if I’d never seen Caleb’s Care Bears, but now I loathe him for all eternity. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I don’t even think Byron Montgomery would have deprived his own child of her stuffed animals. For even making me question my belief that Byron is the literal worst human on earth, I am now rooting for Uncle Jamie to be the next person to get hit by a car. Or a train. Or a rocketship.

Oh, but Hanna convinces Uncle Jamie that Caleb really does want to meet/forgive him, so they make plans to have dinner at The Brew.

Andrew is losing big time at Strip History Trivia. He is, however, winning at both pectorals and abdominals. Glasses? Mild-mannered nerd? Chest of steel underneath his button-up? Is Andrew Superman? My guess is no because as we have discussed repeatedly, Spencer Hastings in a t-shirt and messy ponytail making her smug-as-hell face is the real-world equivalent of kryptonite, and Andrew doesn’t seem to be having any trouble breathing. So: Not a superhero. Or, at the very least: Not a lesbian. Spencer throws in a question about the Trojan War just to have an excuse to take off her bra because even when Spencer is unhinged she’s still got the game of ten Slytherins, plus two. Andrew spots someone at the back door and literally goes, “Holy crap, that’s Emily Fields!” Spencer, still braless and gloating on the couch, tells him not to worry, he’s not her type, but Andrew gathers up his clothes and runs out the door in a naked panic, gentle salutations to Miss Fields as he whizzes past her.

Emily is like, “Spencer, what in the world.” And Spencer is like, “Oh, you brought Lucky Leon’s cupcakes? Thoughtful, but as you can see, I just devoured a delicious snack.”

Now, Emily Fields, sweetest person on this earth, divine lighting shining on her face and in her heart, is not the kind of gal who plays the “dead girlfriend” card. Not for sympathy or pity or as an excuse or an explanation. She’s tried everything: space, verbal affirmation, comforting touches, confectionary goodness — but when Spencer tells her to stay out of the whole Toby thing because she’ll never understand, Emily has had just about enough. Have we ever even heard her raise her voice? Well, she does! She knows what it’s like to lose someone she loved deeply! She knows what it’s like to want to show A her boobs! Then, the truthiest truth bomb you can ever drop on another human being: “You do not have a monopoly on pain, Spencer.”

Spencer comes thiiiiis close to telling Emily about Toby, but remembers the sunnies’ threat and tells her to “get good” with New Spencer, which is a weird thing to say, grammatically, but who cares because Spencer’s voice makes everything sound like heaven.

Wesbian has absolutely wrecked Ezra’s gorgeous literary haven, an offense that is not on par with separating a child from his teddy bears, but is still in the realm of awfulness. But he’s packing up to go now, off to some couch in Philly, because Diane knows that he’s here and it’s only a matter of time before she crashes through the front door, picks up both Aria and Wesley by the scruffs of their beautiful necks, and … makes them take her money? That seems to be the thing that’s scaring the shit out of these two clowns: Diane Fitzgerald making it rain. Wes stuffs as much non-perishable food as he can into his backpack and just as he’s about to run off blindly into the night like some kind of Hamptons-faced Lucas, CeCe calls Aria to photograph her boutique website page and Aria asks to bring along an “assistant.” (Don’t take that job, young Fitz; you have no idea how many mythical creatures you will be called upon to slaughter in the name of fashion.)

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