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“Indeed, yes. My wedding ring is in the bedside drawer. I’m surprised you haven’t found it yet, considering you managed to locate the stash of filth in my wardrobe.”
The heat bloomed on my face.
“No. I haven’t looked in your bedside drawer.”
“Ah, ok,” he told me. “Well, as I said. You’d find my wedding ring in there if you did.”
Sometimes it’s the weirdest questions that come into your head.
“What’s her name?”
“Sorry?”
“Your wife. What’s her name?”
He half shrugged. “Katreya.”
“How old is she?”
He didn’t hesitate in answering this time.
“Forty-seven. There are just shy of two years between us. We got married when she was twenty-one.”
I got another pang. There were twenty-nine years between us. Me and his wife.
“Want some more of my history?” Julian asked, with a scoff. Not malicious. “My daughter, Grace, is twenty-five years old, and my son, Ryan, is twenty-two. Ryan still lives at home with Katreya. Or he did the last time I saw him.”
That pang hit even harder. Two kids, both older than me. It put things into perspective.
“I have a granddaughter, too,” he continued, to slam it home further. “Emily is two. She’s a little sweetheart.”
He watched me watching him before he continued.
“How are you feeling now? Do you want me to keep going?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughed in sad humour.
“This is quite a downturn in conversation, isn’t it? We should be flying high.”
I had to laugh at that. “Maybe I should have some of that whisky.”
He flashed me a grin as he handed the bottle over. I’d only been half serious, but I took a tiny gulp anyway. It was horrible. I pulled a face.
“Not much of a drinker?” he asked and I shook my head, handing him the bottle back.
“No. My mum was when I was younger. Kind of put me off.”
“I can imagine. I hid my addiction for many years. I used to bury my whisky in my desk drawer, behind a load of curriculum paperwork. Nasty.”
Addiction.
“Yes, I’m an alcoholic,” Julian said, reading my eyes. “Sometimes I fool myself that I’m over it, other times I’m not so deluded. I’ve heard many opinions as to the cause, whether it’s some kind of repressed trauma, or a genetic predisposition. An illness. An effect the substance has on the body. Escapism.” He paused. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t make any difference. I’m an alcoholic.”
I felt like I was looking straight into his soul, but I didn’t see weakness there. I saw honesty.
My next question was so stupid I should’ve cringed.
