“Just me,” I say, walking down the hall.
Claire is hunched over the counter, her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth in total concentration as she pipes swirls of pale blue frosting. She looks so much like Mam like that—the same sharp focus, the same tilt of the head. If she doesn't keep bleaching her hair that gold-blonde, she’d be a dead ringer for her.
Kind of like how I’d look like Da if I didn’t bleach mine.
“How was your run?” she asks, not looking up. “Hi, Comet baby! Who’s a good boy?”
“Fine,” I say, putting my half-drunk water bottle from the pound store in the fridge. I lean against the counter, watching her.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say softly, unable to ignore the nasty feeling curling in my gut. It's the hankering, the need for a bottle. I know as soon as I can, I'll be locking myself in the dark and having a drink.
Claire pauses, the piping bag hovering over a cupcake. “Do what?”
“The cupcakes. All the effort. I don’t care about the day.”
Claire finally looks at me, her brown eyes narrowing. My sister is slow to anger, and very few people can actually tick her off. I'm one of them. “Well, I do. I care. And Mam does.”
“Claire—”
“No,” she says, pointing the frosting tip at me like a weapon. “You’re not doing this. Every year, you mope around like you’re being marched to the gallows, when all we try to do is make it a nice celebration.”
“It’s not a celebration for me,” I mutter, staring at the floor.
“It’s your birthday! And it’s Daddy’s birthday too. So why can’t you just shut your mouth and let me make things happy for you?”
She always talks about him like that—in the present tense. I think to Claire, she never fully accepted that he's gone. Like if she can just ignore the loss, it's like it isn’t really there at all. How lovely it must be to have a mind that lets you do that. Mine couldn't ever be so kind.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a headstone. “Claire, please.”
“No,” she says firmly, or as firm as she can be. “You’re going to eat your stupid, indulgent cupcakes. You’re going to smile for Mam. And you’re going to be happy, even if you have to pretend, because I can’t handle you being broken tomorrow. Not tomorrow. You can be mopey some other time.”
I stare at her for a long beat. She's so like him—stubborn, fiercely loyal, and able to see right through my bullshit. And I know that in all reality she just wants me to be happy. “Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll smile.”
“Good,” she grins, returning to her work.
I shake my head, heading for the basement door that's under the stairs. Comet follows, his nails clicking a staccato rhythm on the wood.
The basement is a graveyard of our childhood. Old beanbags, boxes of textbooks, old toys we used to play with everyday—now collecting dust in the dark. I sit on the old corduroy couch, which has a deep, musky smell to it.
I reach underneath, my fingers finding the cool, smooth glass of the whiskey bottle I keep hidden there.
I unscrew the cap, letting the medicinal tang of the alcohol fill my senses. I take a long swig, wincing as the liquid fire burns its way down my throat, numbing the jagged edges of my thoughts.
Comet rests his heavy head on my knee, his dark eyes watching me with that knowing, canine sorrow. It's only now I realize I’d forgotten to give him his treat while we were upstairs.
“Yeah,” I mutter, scratching behind his ears. “I know. ‘M sorry, lad.”
I take another sip, leaning my head back against the cushions. In the dim light, I can almost see him. I can see him sitting on the floor with Claire, helping her build some lopsided Lego tower or playing with her dolls in that dollhouse he built while I try to act ‘too cool’ to join them. I can hear his laugh—that deep, rumbling sound that makes everything feel safe.
“Think you’ve had enough there, Nialler? You’ll be no good for the match next Saturday if you keep that up.”
The clear as day voice startles me. I open my eyes, the hallucination fading. I am alone. Just me, a dog, and a bottle of cheap penance.
Comet whines again, nudging my hand with his nose.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, capping the bottle and shoving it back under the couch.
I head back upstairs, Comet trotting at my heels. Claire is wiping down the counters now, making me wonder how long I’d sat downstairs. It feels like merely two minutes for me. Possibly twenty in real world time.
