Page 19 of One Last Gift

“Drunk,” Cassie finished his sentence pointedly. “Drunk is what you are.” And it became impossible to control, the way any emotion had always been impossible to control around him, and she felt the leash on her temper snap. “Are you for real? You’re really getting drunk at your best friend’s funeral? What the hell is wrong with you?” She was breathing too heavily, dangerously close to collapsing into sobs.

His blue eyes narrowed. “No need to get angry,” he said, but though he was clearly trying for rational, calm, his words only came out slurred. “I’m just—”

“Well, don’t.” She crossed her arms protectively over her chest. “Whatever it is, don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

“What, because you’re so perfect?” The people closest to them had gone quiet, Cassie realized, watching and listening even though they were pretending not to. “Because this grief is all yours? Because you’re the only one affected?” Cassie felt her stomach tighten, backed away farther. But he wouldn’t let her, took a step forward to match. “Look around, Cass, all these people miss him. All of them.” His voice broke then, and he hitched in a breath that sounded painful. And she almost caved. She almost let go of the anger that had been on a constant simmer since Tom had died. But then, with his next words, any trickle of sympathy was eclipsed. “Don’t be so fucking selfish.”

There was a small gasp from somewhere in the room as Cassie and Sam stared at each other. Selfish? Selfish? She had lost her brother, because he’d fallen, because he’d been alone in Argentina with no one to help him, and she was being selfish? She dropped her hands to her sides, clenching them into fists. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t want to cry, not now, not in front of everyone. So, keeping her back as straight as she could, she said nothing at all, and walked away, toward the exit of the pub.

Someone was running after her. She turned, expecting it to be Hazel. But it was Jessica, with the perfect auburn hair and porcelain complexion. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her voice a soft, Irish lilt. “He’s not…” She glanced back at Sam, who was heading back to the sofa and picking up his beer again. “He’s not doing well.”

“No,” Cassie managed to get out. “I can see that.”

“We’re going to leave,” Jessica said quickly.

“Good.” She closed her eyes. “Sorry.” She wasn’t sure she really was sorry, though—she didn’t want him there. Couldn’t bear for him to be anywhere near her, because he was the reason Tom was not here anymore.

“I’m…I’m so sorry for your loss, Cassie.” Your loss. So inadequate, like you’d misplaced someone, rather than having them ripped from you. Cassie watched as Jessica went back to Sam, said a few words, grabbed his arm, and steered him from the pub, him stumbling to keep up with her. Sam’s mum was there too, her eyes as blue as his, but her hair lighter, her body and face softer, rounder. Cassie saw her gaze flickering between Sam and Cassie, before she ran after Sam. Of course, Cassie thought. Of course she’d run after her son. He had his mum, his fiancée, to look after him. But the most important person in Cassie’s world had been taken.

She gave it a few minutes to be sure they’d gone before heading outside. She needed to breathe, needed to be away from the warmth, the crackling logs, the music. The laughter. Tom was dead, and people were laughing. She took a gulp of icy air, headed to one of the outside picnic-style tables, and sat down. She hadn’t thought to grab her coat, so she sat hunched in her sweater, arms around herself. She only had a few moments alone before she was joined by someone else. Amy, this time—Tom’s girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend, Cassie supposed. Who, unlike Cassie, had thought to grab a coat before coming outside.

“I saw you come out here,” she said as she sat down next to Cassie. “Just thought I’d check if you were OK.” Cassie looked at her and Amy sighed, adjusting the black headband she was wearing to keep her curls in place. “Sorry. Silly question.” Amy’s eyes, usually bright, were red-rimmed and swollen, her hands clasped around a mug of steaming liquid, which smelt of peppermint tea. “I couldn’t face drinking,” she said, when she saw Cassie looking at it.

They sat in silence for a bit—it was one of the things Cassie had always appreciated about Amy, the fact that she didn’t babble for the sake of it, didn’t feel the need to fill silences. So it took a few moments for Cassie to realize that Amy wasn’t just sitting there in silence. She was crying in silence, tears falling off her nose and into her lap, her shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to be quiet.

“Oh, Amy.” She moved toward her, put her arm around her—the first person she’d actively tried to comfort since it had happened, rather than the other way around.

Amy tucked one of her brunette curls behind her ear. “Did he…?” But she trailed off, shaking her head.

“What? Did he what?”

“I just wondered if he’d…said anything to you, before he left for Argentina? I’m sorry,” she continued quickly, “I don’t want to make you think about it if you don’t want to, it’s just, I didn’t speak to him for two weeks before he left and I…” Amy didn’t finish, but Cassie thought she got it. Amy had loved Tom, no matter what happened in the end, and she must have been regretting those weeks of silence, that she didn’t get to say the perfect last words. She felt that too. She’d reread the last WhatsApp message she’d sent him countless times.

“He just said you’d broken up.”

Amy frowned. “Nothing else?”

Cassie hesitated, then shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She wished she could say something more profound, tell Amy he’d told her he still loved her, anything to offer comfort. But then again, maybe nothing could. She knew that was the case for her. Her whole world had been shattered, and despite what she’d said at the funeral, in an attempt to do Tom proud, she didn’t think she was brave enough to get through these next weeks, months, years without him. She’d lost the one person she’d always assumed would be there to lean on, and nothing anyone could say would ever make that better.

Chapter Nine

Cassie curled up on the sofa in Linda’s living room, a blanket pulled over her, some kind of daytime show playing on the small television in the corner of the room. Cassie wasn’t paying attention to it, though. She was staring into space, her feelings in an “off” setting. There was a mug of cold tea in front of her on the small wooden coffee table, and outside rain battered the window, the storm making the whole room feel gray inside, despite the three vases of flowers positioned around the room, the various paintings on the cream-colored walls.

She’d been staying at Linda’s for two weeks now. Hazel had been there off and on too, staying with her parents down the road, and had spent New Year’s with them, staying overnight to keep Cassie company. Claire had stayed for a few days too, but she’d gone to France now and Cassie was actually grateful for it—it had been hard to try to keep it together in front of Claire.

Linda padded into the living room in slippers and a fluffy white dressing gown. “I’m just going to have a shower, but can I get you anything, Cassie love?” Her gaze flickered to the cold mug of tea.

“No, thanks.” Cassie made herself look at Linda, tried for a weak smile. It made her facial muscles hurt.

“I’ll make some nice pasta later, shall I? What do you fancy?”

“Anything’s great.” Would her voice always sound this dull? she wondered. Had it felt like this, after her parents had died? It was awful that she couldn’t quite remember. She knew the general feeling of grief from it, of course, and she still had moments even now when she’d take out old photos of her mum and dad and wish that they were here, that she’d had the chance to really get to know them. But she’d been five when it had happened, and she had no real memory of the immediate aftermath of it, just a sense of blackness around that time. And while growing up without parents left a hole that was a constant ache, this, losing Tom, felt different. More immediate, more acute.

“I’ve got a great pesto macaroni cheese recipe. Pure comfort food—the only type of cooking I’m good at, as you know.”

“Sure. Thanks, Linda.” She had to remember that Linda, too, had lost Tom. That she wasn’t the only one struggling right now. Just like Sam had told her at the wake, she thought bitterly, though she shoved aside the memory, knowing it would only make her feel worse.

Linda hesitated, then left her alone again. She heard the creak of the stairs as Linda made her way to the bathroom, heard the shower turn on upstairs. Linda would have to go back to work tomorrow, Cassie knew. She’d arranged cover at the pub over the last two weeks, but her stand-in manager was leaving tomorrow, and she’d said she needed to check how everything was doing, after the busy period.