Jamie didn't really have words for his friend, but he'd failed to deactivate this bomb, so it was his responsibility to deal with the explosion. He just held her. He couldn't say he was glad that she was crying because she missed her mother, but he was glad that she wasn't crying because of anything he'd said. She was doing just what Jamie liked to do, in a way, only she was doing it backwards. Where Jamie liked to slap happy band aids on everything to hide the negativity under the surface of conversations or situations, Julia was covering up her own longing with band aids made of other insecurities. Now he was just slapping band aids on top of band aids, doing nothing for the pain. They were both constantly changing the subject, speaking words that betrayed what was in their hearts in the name of distraction. It created plenty of fodder for quirky conversation but sometimes, like now, it just didn't work. 

He had never put much thought into what it would be like to lose his mum, because the thought of it was too absurd to imagine. How could the one person who'd always been there suddenly vanish? It would be like turning off the sun. Jamie and his mother were this tiny, oddly shaped family, but they could only be called that as long as there were two of them. If something happened to his mother then he'd be all on his own, he supposed. It was weird to think about and he didn't like doing it – but, realistically, what could possibly happen? His mother wasn't out opposing dark wizards on the daily. She answered phones for a living. She was fine, and Jamie wasn't quite ready to become an orphan. It wasn't a possibility he could even begin to entertain. If he lost his mother then he didn't think a conversation about kissing boys or becoming a tramp would distract him, either.

So, in other words, he was out of ideas, and didn't want to make this worse. A hug, at first, had seemed like enough, but there were things you were supposed to say. He just didn't know what they were. He could tell her what he knew – that her mother was with God. He could tell her what he felt – that he was sorry. He could tell her what he wanted – for her to stop crying and relax. But this wasn't about him. “You want to talk about it, bird?” he asked. He liked dressing snazzy, but he didn't quite have all of the props, so there was no monogrammed hankie or pocket square to pull out from anywhere. Her sleeve would have to do. “I'm not all that hungry.” 


a simple rule that every good man knows by heart: its smarter to be lucky than its lucky to be smart