Wanna brew?

'D'ya wanna brew?'

Really? A brew? A fucking brew. Sounds simple, doesn't it? Go on then, I thought, pour me a cuppa. Let's pretend for a bit. Easy peasy. Grab the mug. The Yorkshire Gold – Dad's favourite, the one he'd insist on having even in hospital. Pour the boiling water, watch the dark swirl rise like a storm. Add the whole milk, because why the hell not. Quell the storm. Stir some sugar. Watch the vortex for a second, or two. Nice. Thanks for the tea.

James stared at me, his expression softening as I stood frozen, fingers pressed against the counter's edge. It felt like an eternity before he spoke again.

'So... wanna brew?'

'Sure.'

'How many sugars?'

My jaw clenched. He must have made me hundreds of cups since we were kids. Every time, and I mean every time, I would ask for exactly two sugars. Not one. Not three. Two.

He opened the cupboard, watching me with that worried expression that seemed permanently etched on his face these days. The doors were covered in that cheap wood vinyl that curled up at every corner, just like the ones in Dad's kitchen where we'd spent Sunday mornings reading the papers together.

'Everything alright?' he said, with a tone that knew the answer already.

'Yeah, sorry. Two, please.'

Grabbing the biggest mug he could find – that ridiculous Sports Direct monstrosity – he continued. 'Wanna talk about it?' He brushed toast crumbs off the counter as he spoke. 'I know you were always closer to him than I was. I know that. And I know this, umm, this can't be easy.' As he said this, he walked over to the kettle with that comically large mug.

'Really?' I said, eyeing the bucket he was filling. I pushed my tangled hair from my face, aware suddenly of how long it had been since I'd properly washed it. 'Not having one yourself?'

James laughed awkwardly. 'Sorry, it's all I could find,' he said, ignoring the question.

'You sure?' I said, assuming he was just being lazy as always. I walked over to the cupboard and opened it, displaying, to my surprise, an empty space where clean mugs should have been.

'Like I said, it's all I could find.'

I could have sworn I'd done some washing the other day? Or was it last week?

'Honestly, Alice, do you wanna talk about it?'

Of course I don't want to talk about it, I thought, wrapping my cardigan tighter around myself. If I wanted to talk about it, I'd be talking about it. And why'd he say 'it'? As if his death were some undefined, amorphous blob. This thing that we couldn't quite comprehend.

'I don't want to talk about it,' I replied, begrudgingly.

'It's been six months, Alice. You– we have to talk sometime.'

'I'm fine, really. I just wish people would stop worrying.'

'Come on Alice, look at the state of things in here...' James gestured broadly to the kitchen.

He was right. The blinds were half-closed, letting in sickly light that seemed to reflect off every dirty plate. The bin overflowed with takeaway containers and old tea bags, and there was a warm, stale smell in the air. Like the bottom of a compost heap.

'You don't have to pretend, Alice. I'm here – everyone's here for you.'

He always did that. Whenever he was worried about me, he'd repeat my name. Alice. Alice. ALICE. Just in case I'd forgotten. It made him sound sterile. Like a teacher saying you can do better if you just focused. Focus, Alice. Think about your future, Alice. Be good, Alice.

'I'm not pretending. I'm fine,' I said, as if it wasn't written across my face in bold, black letters.

'It's okay to not be fine, Alice... really.'

If he says Alice one more time, I swear.

'Alice, please... talk to me.'

'WILL YOU JUST FUCK OFF!' I snapped. 'Stop saying Alice. I know my fucking name. You don't have to repeat my name every time. I am fine. FINE. How many times do I have to say it? Shall we go find a blackboard so I can write it a thousand times? Fine. Fine. Fine!'

He stood there, not saying a word, listening.

'You think you understand. You think that coming round here, making me a god damned tea in that absurd mug will make a difference. That somehow it will fix things. That it will make everything fine. But it won't, will it? Has it made you fine? Does Charlotte make you a tea in the morning and repeat your name over and over and over until it loses all meaning? Does she keep asking you if you're okay? Or to talk? Does she say she's here for you every two minutes? I don't want your tea. I don't need your help. I. Am. Fine.'

The air hung silent for a moment. Despite my racing heart and soaking armpits, all I could focus on was the little specks of dust floating in the weak morning light. The silence stretched until it felt physical, like another presence in the room.

'This isn't you,' I said, my voice softer now. 'This weak, pathetic shadow. You keep treating me like I was in the bed next to him.' I took a big sip of the cold tea and continued, 'Before he died, you'd never have acted like this. Tip-toeing around me. Walking on eggshells. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Would you?'

I set down the mug with a clunk that seemed too loud in the quiet kitchen. 'It's just, I'm just – just say it as it is. I'm being a twat. I'm making it about me. I'm being selfish. Don't treat me like your children. I'm not a child and you're not dad.'

As I said this, I looked at him directly. Staring into his big brown eyes. Like Dad's. His subtle rosacea. Like Dad's. His enormous butt chin. Like Dad's. It was like the universe wanted to shine a big ironic light on what I'd just said.

'You're right,' he said, interrupting my thoughts.

'I am?'

'Yeah. You're acting like a child, a spoilt brat who thinks they're the only one hurting.' He paused, as if weighing up whether to continue. 'For months now everyone has had to put everything on hold. For you.'

'I didn't ask–'

'You didn't have to. Everyone knows how close you two were. Just because you didn't ask, doesn't mean people won't turn up, does it?' He was pacing the room now. 'You think this hasn't been hard on me? That I wasn't close with him too?'

'I never said that.'

'You don't have to. It's your actions that did it for you. While you've been sitting here wallowing, I had to organise the funeral. I had to explain to my children why their Pap won't be at any more birthdays or Christmases. I've done all of that. Settled the will, the finances, the house, the dog, the mortgage. Even before he died, where were you?' James was getting into the swing of things now. 'I sat with the doctors as they explained how aggressive the cancer was. I drove him to chemo. It was me who sat by his bed almost every night. Where were you?'

'I couldn't–'

'Yes I know. We know. The whole world knows that you couldn't see him in that state. So I did.'

I felt my jaw tighten, words of defence rising in my throat, but I swallowed them back.

I could see the tears trying to form in his eyes. Little drops glistening in that pathetic light that leaked through the blinds. My hands gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white.

'Every week I've come round. Made the two-hour drive from home. Sitting on the M5 here and back. Listening to shitty podcasts about grief that seem like they're presented by people who've never actually experienced it.' He paused, running a hand through his hair – Dad's gesture, Dad's hands. 'Just so I can come stand in your shitty kitchen and get the same response as last week and the week before. Like a mockingbird... I'm fine, I'm fine. When we all know you're not.'

'James, I–' but the words died in my mouth. What could I say? That I was sorry? Sorry felt too small, too easy.

James turned to the sink, piled with stuff and surrounded with stagnant water, and poured himself a drink from the tap. His hands were shaking. 'Then I have to go home. Having let all my feelings stew and simmer while I pretend for you, to then explode at Charlotte. Or the kids.' He took a long drink, his throat working. 'You know last week I told Lacy to fuck off? My own daughter. She was just asking for help with her homework, and I–' his voice cracked. 'I became someone I didn't recognise. Someone Dad would have been ashamed of. It's a miracle that Charlotte didn't slap me.'

I watched him, this strong, steady brother of mine, coming undone in my kitchen. Maybe he was already undone and I just hadn't noticed. Had I really been that distant? That absorbed by my own weight... I just wanted to hold him. Say I'm sorry. But we weren't like that. Stolid support, that's what Dad taught us.

'I can't do this on my own, Alice.'

I stared at him for a long moment, watching the tremor in his hands, the exhaustion in his eyes. It was like looking at a reflection, only magnified. He was right—I wasn't fine. Neither of us were.

The tea in the Sports Direct mug was cold now, a film forming over the top, but I took another sip anyway. "Okay," I said, barely above a whisper. "I'll try."

James nodded once. No big speech, no forced gratitude. Just a nod. Like he needed to believe me.

I turned to the sink, rinsing out the mug. The water ran hot, cutting through the grease and grime of days—or weeks. For the first time in months, I felt something other than the heavy numbness pressing down on me. I wasn't sure if it was guilt, or relief, or something else entirely. But it was something.

'Wanna brew?' I asked, grabbing the Yorkshire Gold.

'Sure,' he said.