“Pussy.”
“Hey, now,” Patrick said in his therapist voice. “I know you’re upset you’re not the tallest Normal anymore, but you’ll always be the biggest cunt to me.”
Martin raised his right arm and Patrick leaned back to avoid the possible blow. “I’m pretty sober, Mart. Don’t be starting something you can’t finish.”
Martin dropped his arm. “Wine?”
Patrick handed him the glass. “How’s Meg doing, anyways?”
“Ah, S’fine. Dancing. How do you feel about her niece?”
He frowned. “Who?”
“Meg’s niece. You wanna root her?”
Patrick squinted at his brother. “Your wife wants me to fuck her niece?”
“Yeah, her friend.”
“Is it her friend or her niece?”
Martin drained the last of his wine. “Why does that matter?”
He was wasting his time. “You know what? I think I’ll pass.”
“Why? Think ya too famous for her or something?”
“Mate, you don’t even know who ‘her’ is.”
Martin rolled his empty glass between his palms. “Yeah, maybe you’ve got a point. Fuck it, Youngest. You’re only twenty-two. Plenty of time.”
Patrick’s phone buzzed and he pulled it out. A text from Cheryl.
I’m going to bed. Update me on any and all shenanigans?
Always. Sweet dreams, KitKat
You too, Patty-Bear
He touched his screen where the words ‘Patty-Bear’ glowed and felt his smile fade. What was he doing? In the months since Diana, he hadn’t dated anyone. Hadn’t hooked up at all except for a few randoms on away games. He knew he was waiting, but for what? Were he and Cheryl a matter of time? Or was he just being a shitty entitled friend and putting his life on hold for something that would never happen?
He looked at Martin, who was now pouring himself white wine from a half-bottle in the middle of the table. He could be a prick, but he was the first of his brothers to get married and the first to have kids. He and Meg seemed happy with their four-bedroom house in Dalkeith and their Toyota Hilux. Maybe Martin had the answer. “Hey, do you believe in true love?”
Martin choked on his wine. “What the fuck?”
“You’re married. I wanna know. Do you believe in true love?”
He was sure Martin was going to tell him to shut his fucking mouth, but he just sat there, staring blankly at the people dancing to ‘Don’t Cha’ by the Pussycat Dolls.
“I think… it depends. I know that’s not what you’re supposed to say. But it does.”
“On what?”
“Lots of things.” He shifted in his chair. “Some people feel it right away, and it works. Other people, it’s more… organised. You want the same shit, you want to get married, you’re the right age.”
The right age. What he wouldn’t give to make that concept disappear.
“It depends,” Martin said again. “That’s the only answer. Does that help?”
