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As he poured for Cody, he gave him a smile. Cody didn’t smile back but he didn’t grump either. He looks as if something in him has died, Jason thought. He remembered the first week or two of the hellish time after Brent had shot himself. Thinking back on it, he’d also been as if dead. The pain had been so great that his mind had numbed itself, as the body does with a severe wound. He’d wandered around in a daze, and often, he refused to believe it had happened. It seemed impossible. A bad dream. Unreal. It was only when he had come to Australia that the full horror of Brent’s suicide had become real. He remembered how he had wept after the first time with Luigi. Of how he had understood the sorrow at the heart of life. It had changed him, he suddenly recognised. He’d been arrogant, selfish—a classic handsome upper class twit. He had learnt his lesson. Too late. Too late. But perhaps all the hard lessons of life were like that.
He looked at Cody. What had happened to him would either crush him or make him stronger. And there was this: he owed it to the universe, to Providence, to God, to the Goddess—whatever you liked to call it—to do what he could to help. It was a kind of superstitious bargaining, he knew full well. Let me be kind and generous so the Furies are kind to me in return. It didn’t work like that, he knew. In his heart, he knew what that luck and happiness were random. But he couldn’t bear the thought that Brent had died in vain, that all that life, all that learning, and suffering, and happiness; that all that love, could be pointless.
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