Page 110 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
“Thought I’d remind you. In case the trauma wasn’t properly set in.”
He grunts, lifts his glass slightly. “Merry bloody Christmas.”
We clink, barely. The sound is pathetic.
“She didn’t want to string me along,” I say, and the words come out all flat and familiar now. “Didn’t think it was fair. Said she had to see what was what.”
Geoff reaches over and pinches the last chip with any actual cheese left on it. “Very noble. Honest. Responsible. Still dumped you though, didn’t she?”
“Appreciate the reminder.”
He chews like it’s a performance. “You think she’ll come back?”
I stare at the ceiling. “I haven’t got a clue.”
“Fair.”
We sit there for a bit, the kind of silence that only really happens between brothers or blokes too pissed to pretend anymore.
“I get it,” I mutter eventually. “She’s got SJ. She’s got history. But…”
“But?”
I glance at him. “It still hurts like hell.”
Geoff nods. “There it is.”
I pick up the whisky bottle. It’s got maybe a double left, if we’re generous. I pour it into my glass and raise it in mock toast.
“To being the backup plan.”
“To cheesy chips and poor decisions,” Geoff replies.
We drink.
That’s when the front door opens.
We both freeze like we’ve been caught doing something illegal. Technically, we haven’t. Unless murdering a bottle of whisky counts.
Theo walks in, shutting the door behind him with the weary air of someone who knows exactly what sort of nonsense he’s walking into and still hates it.
“Oi, oi!” Geoff calls, lifting his empty glass. “Look who’s decided to slum it with the riff-raff!”
I grin. “The responsible sibling has arrived. We’re saved.”
Theo stares at us. “You’re both drunk.”
“Well observed,” I say. “Detective Inspector Corbin, back on the case.”
Geoff squints at him. “You’re not even meant to be here. What time is your posh twat flight?”
“That would beyourposh twat flight,” Theo replies, pointing at Geoff. “I’m not flying anywhere.”
“Tragic,” Geoff mutters. “No wonder you’re so grumpy.”
Theo ignores him and heads straight for the kitchen, shaking his head as he passes.
“I got two texts,” he calls over his shoulder. “One just said ‘chips’ with no context. The other was Jasper saying something about love being a slow death and asking what whisky monks would drink if monks drank whisky.”
