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She swallows, her eyes wide and watery. “I won’t fail you, Owen, like I did Sydney.”

I didn’t cry in the car when I left work after Carmel called and told me she was at the vet with Paul.

I didn’t cry when I pulled into the car park and braced myself for one of the hardest things I knew I was ever going to have to do.

I didn’t cry when Carmel threw her arms around me in the waiting room, Paul’s favourite ball still in her hand.

I didn’t cry when she came into the consultation room with me, and the vet explained that Paul had died suddenly, of what, they didn’t know, but they guessed at heart disease or a blood clot.

I didn’t cry when they asked me if I wanted to see him, to say goodbye.

I didn’t cry when they brought his little body out, wrapped in a blue towel, his eyes closed.

I didn’t cry when Carmel burst into tears, telling me she got him to the vet as quickly as she could.

I didn’t cry when I held her, her body shuddering against mine, the vet telling me there wasn’t anything anyone could’ve done.

I didn’t cry when they asked me if I’d like to bury him at home or whether I wanted him cremated and his ashes returned to me, nor when they charged me an exorbitant amount of money for cremating my best friend.

And I didn’t cry when I arrived back home and hung up his harness and his lead.

But looking into Alice’s eyes and listening to her words and the pledge she’s just made to me, a tear rolls down my cheek.

40

Alice

I’ve never seen a man cry.

It’s a rare thing, and it shouldn’t be. I cry all the time, have hugged my girlfriends when they’ve cried, and remember the first time my mum cried when she was reading a book and told me she was happy crying, but I wasn’t convinced.

My English lit teacher, Mrs Watts, once cried in front of us all when we watched the film adaptation of Romeo and Juliet, even though she knew the ending. And I sympathised with her, as I can’t even make it through the first scene of Finding Nemo when his mum dies, so I have no room to judge.

And I want to cry with him, want to bawl my eyes out, but I know this isn’t my time. This is his time. His grief. His loss. And I’m not here to upstage him.

I need to be a human tissue, the comfort blanket, the steady rock that’ll hold him in place.

If this were Lori, Taylor, or Sydney, I’d have thrown my arms around them and held on for dear life, but I don’t want Owen to feel uncomfortable. I’m not sure whether I should ask for his permission to hug him, and now I’ve thought too long about it and Smithy is back with a teapot and cups, which he places on the coffee table.

Owen gulps as if swallowing the remaining tears, and it saddens me that even though they’ve been friends for years, it’s clear he doesn’t want to be seen crying in front of Smithy.

“I’ve never seen a kitchen cupboard so organised,” Smithy says when he sets the tray down. “And not a single biscuit in the whole place. What do you live on?”

I start to make the tea.

Smithy leans over and pats Owen on the back.

“We’re here for you, buddy, even if it’s just to bring you biscuits.”

Owen smiles. It’s small and fleeting, but it’s there.

“Hey, I just want you to know one thing,” Smithy says, and we both look at him, waiting for him to declare something deep and meaningful. But instead, he says, “I oiled my worktops last night after you left. Just so you know.”

Owen nods, and I think he’s going to start crying again as he opens his mouth, but all he says is “Thank you.”

We stay about an hour, chatting to Owen about mundane things, nothing too hard-hitting, no one mentioning what happened today, but giving him plenty of opportunity to talk about it if he wants to. But he clearly doesn’t.

People are different, and I guess they handle grief in different ways. I think I’d want to talk about it. I’d probably need to talk about it; otherwise, it’d eat me from the inside out. But Owen seems content to be consumed from within.