How dare he? Sue Ellen fumes as she strides back to her office. How dare he talk to her like that? How dare he make such rude insinuations in front of a virtual stranger!
She can only hope Bum, and Bobby as well, for that matter, didn't realise what her impertinent son had been driving at. It's no one else's concern if she's been having the occasional drink since J.R.'s passing. Heavens, it's been more than twenty years since she's had any kind of issue with alcohol. She's a different person now, and if she wants to unwind with a glass of bourbon at the end of a hard day, that's her business and hers alone.
Besides, it's not the same as before. When she drank then, she drank to numb herself to the pain of her life, to forget the casual cruelties that made up her marriage, or to gain the courage to do what needed to be done. She didn't enjoy it; it was a means to an end.
Now, she finds she enjoys the drink itself.
The taste of it reminds her of J.R.
Clearly though, she should never have shared her feelings about J.R.'s letter with John Ross. Some things are best kept private, even from one's children. Perhaps especially from one's children, when one's children are Ewings.
She reaches her office and hurries in, shutting the door behind her. Both the subject of that letter, and the man who wrote it, are never far from her mind, and now in her turmoil, they spring again to the forefront, bringing with them a telltale tightening of her throat. She leans against the door, raising a hand to her cover her mouth. Breathing slowly and evenly through her nose, she closes her eyes tightly and waits for the feeling to pass.
I'm sorry, my darling. I'm so sorry, she repeats over and over in her mind.
The cursor blinks cheerily, three words into the email she's begun to her assistant. Could you please…? Please what, exactly, she has no idea. Whatever her request was going to be has disappeared into the ether she she's been staring at for the last ten minutes.
She gives up and clicks the red X to close the window. Whatever it was, it can't have been too earth-shatteringly important, if she can't even remember it now.
Shifting her gaze from her computer screen, she looks to the framed photograph on her desk – she and J.R., much younger, in happier times. At least, they look happy in the picture – she honestly can't remember what their status had been at the time. It was all so long ago, and her feelings for her then-husband changed seemingly with the wind in those days.
If only she'd known then what she knows now, maybe she would have tried just a little harder. Maybe they both would have. It might not have mattered, but she could do with fewer regrets.
Reaching over, she picks up the photograph and slides it closer to her, as she has countless times in the months since J.R.'s been gone. Sometimes she brings it just a little closer, then continues with her work. Sometimes she talks to him. Often she pours herself a little drink and lifts her glass in a toast.
She's trying very hard to not do that now.
"John Ross thinks I'm a drunk," she tells him, and in her head, she hears his reply.
Is that a fact? he asks.
Pursing her lips, she nods, her head moving slowly side to side, then bobbing up and down. "I think he may be right," she admits in a whisper.
And in her mind, J.R. harrumphs in agreement. Course he's right. You're fucking up, darlin'. Am I really worth all of this grief?
Is he? Isn't the loss of any human life worthy of grief? Of course it is. And he was the love of her life. Her grief is justified, no matter what anyone says. She's coping as best she can.
But, this isn't what I'd want for you, he admonishes.
"Well, you're not here, now are you?" Sudden anger flares and she wants to curse him, wants to slam the picture face down on the desk, or throw it across the room, but she doesn't.
She can't.
In her mind's eye, he shrugs, seemingly oblivious to her turmoil. I would be if I could be. You know that, darlin'.
She doesn't, of course, because she had never asked. Why hadn't she asked?
"I should have called you," she blurts. "I should have opened the goddamned letter as soon as I got it and I should have called you."
And there it is. She reaches down and touches the handle to her bottom desk drawer.
This is a recurrent theme, and J.R., in death as he never was in life, is endlessly patient with her.
What would that have solved? he asks, like he always does when her thoughts start down this path.
"Well, you would have known my answer, for one thing."
I knew, Sue Ellen. I knew you loved me. I've always known that.
"Yes, but you didn't know I'd be willing to admit it." How could he, when she hadn't yet admitted it to herself?
When have you known me to ask a question I didn't already know the answer to? I knew. You made your decision the night you kissed me on the cheek and invited me in for tea. You didn't know it yet, but I surely did.
"Would you have come home right away if I asked you to?" she asks, getting to the heart of the matter.
He scoffs. Now does that sound like me?
It doesn't, of course, but that doesn't eliminate the possibility. And it's that possibility that keeps her up at night. It's that possibility she's been trying to drown for months now, but the damned thing just won't die. Her hand drifts back to the bottom drawer.
Don't do this to yourself, honey. Nothing you did or didn't do would have changed anything. It was my time, is all. The voice in her mind is sad, so sad it brings tears to her eyes.
"Nothing I did or didn't do would have changed a thing," she repeats in a whisper. She wants to believe, oh how she wants to believe.
