‘To Patrick.’
I wasn’t a fan of neat gin, and it burned as it went down, but at least its fire was melting some of my numbness.
‘I saw you today,’ he said, swirling his drink, ‘in the cemetery.’
Here it was, the reason he’d come – to tell me off about hounding Marcie.
‘We must have missed each other,’ I said, tensing.
Nick watched me as I took another sip of warm gin, but his own cup stayed on my desk. ‘I appreciate it.’
He was thanking me? ‘What do you mean?’
‘Marcie needed her privacy today, and you respected that.’
I’d done the right thing by Marcie, that was what mattered, but for some reason, it also felt important to get his acknowledgement.
He looked tired today; not quite as perfectly clean-shaven as usual. ‘Marcie’s in a bad state.’
Without thinking, I placed my hand on his knee. ‘I’m sorry.’
Nick didn’t flinch; he didn’t blink. His eyes were the same emerald green as the bottle of Gordon’s and they suddenly felt achingly familiar – like we’d known each other in a different life.
His gaze was unsettling; I needed to concentrate on something other than his face.
‘We’ve done this funny feature called “Shit Lyrics”.’
Nope. Not better.
He broke eye contact, and downed the rest of his gin. His Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed. ‘You’re busy,’ he said. ‘I should go. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’ He stood, and I suddenly really wanted him to stay.
‘I might need one more shot, before you go.’
‘It’s yours,’ he said. ‘It was Patrick’s—’
‘—favourite drink, I know.’
‘No, it’s his actual bottle.’
Everything went still. ‘This is...hisbottle?’
He nodded. ‘He gave it to Marcie years ago. I snuck it out so you could have it.’
A ball formed in my throat. I couldn’t breathe.
Hot tears welled but before I could stop them, they were streaming down my face. I dropped my head so Nick couldn’t see me cry.
He was standing, but instead of moving away he took my hand, pulled me to my feet and wrapped his arms around me.
I clung to him, properly sobbing now. But each falling tear made me feel lighter. It wasn’t the grief that was lifting, just my resistance to showing it. I was finally crying and the relief was overwhelming. I hadn’t realised how much I’d needed a simple hug. At the funeral, people had pecked cheeks and patted backs, but the contact had been fleeting and unfeeling. Nick’s embrace was warm and solid.
His pristine suit jacket was getting wet with my tears, but he didn’t seem to mind. After a couple of minutes, he pulled back gently.
‘The gin’s better off with you rather than Marcie – a recovering alcoholic.’
I managed a smile and wiped my clammy cheek.
‘Thank you, Nick.’
