She couldn’t help the soft amused exhale he talked about being a kid. “So was I,” she murmured to herself, perhaps too quiet for him to hear. She’d been the bratty younger sister. And then Heather killed herself, and she became the sullen depressed sister. And no amount of therapy had kept her away from the bottle.
Frank grabbed her attention then. Saying things she’d heard at the funeral. James’ parents comforting her, telling her she’d made him happy in his last months. She couldn’t bear to keep in contact with them after that, though they’d sent her a birthday card a few weeks ago.
“I loved him too,” she whispered, barely audible. Her features crumpled again with pain, and she took in a shuddering breath, and then downed the last of her whiskey in one. It didn’t burn this time, it was comforting, a warm hug to soothe the tears forming again behind her lashes. “I miss him so fucking much,” she managed, this time a little louder, choked with emotion. She let the glass hit the bar with a clatter, looking up hopefully for the bartender, but already knowing what he would do. With a sad frown, he shook his head and took her empty glass from her.