registered the presence of a dark blue sedan parked down the street, unremarkable amidst all the other cars there.
It wasn’t until halfway back to Fremantle that Frank spoke. ‘I’m an ungrateful, cowardly shit.’ Then he opened the scotch, drank a long gulp of it and no longer cared if he cried.
Back at the hotel, Milo helped him to their room and put him to bed. He prised the bottle out of Frank’s hands and tried to tuck him in.
‘I’m not such a shit, am I?’ Frank asked, pleading in his brown eyes.
‘Of course you’re not.’
‘Kevin says that Steve understood. That it was okay. I wrote every fortnight, I phoned him every week, right to the end. I didn’t ignore him. Why do I feel like such a little shit?’
‘Because you’re a nice guy. And you’re pissed out of your brain. Go to sleep.’
‘You’ll think I’m…’ The rest of the sentence dissolved into a mumble.
‘No, I won’t.’
‘Yes, you will.’
‘Frank, I don’t think you’re a shit. I think you were scared and sad and you didn’t want to watch your best friend waste away when you couldn’t do anything about it.’
Frank turned an adoring gaze up to Milo. ‘You’re my best friend.’
‘I’ll be your worst nightmare if you don’t shut up and go to sleep.’
‘Sure.’ Frank grinned drunkenly and snuggled down into the bed. ‘Anything you say.’
‘You bet. Daft bastard.’
Frank sensed Milo’s presence as the blankets were tugged up around his shoulders, started feeling less awful about himself, and finally fell asleep.
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