She headed for the main cabin, passing a group of tall blondes. They were whispering behind their hands and though Cheryl knew they weren’t talking about her, she was transported back to high school.
“Slut,” the popular girls hissed whenever she walked past. “Cheryl Karalis-Walkwhore.”
Plenty of them hooked up with guys, but that wasn’t the point. At Franklin Grammar, being a slut meant not owning three holiday homes or a skin tone that fit on a cream cheese colour wheel. She was a half-Greek bastard from the western suburbs, and no matter how hard she worked to hide it, the rich girls smelled blood. “Nice outfit, Walkwhore. Where did you get those shoes, the Salvation Army?”
Folding her arms across her chest, Cheryl entered the cabin, praying Patrick was free, or at least talking to less than ten football players. She could really use a hug, and Patrick gave the best hugs. None of her friends ‘got’ why she was so close with a twenty-three-year-old, but it made perfect sense to her. In a world full of storm clouds, he was a ray of sunshine. It was so easy to be with him—as easy as it was to be by herself. They went on hikes and watched horror movies and had brunch on Sundays; all the stuff no one else wanted to do. And because they weren’t a thing, she could wear tracksuit pants and no make up around him, and eat her weight in carbonara, and he didn’t care. She’d never been so comfortable around a guy. And though she didn’t like to say it, because it made her feel like a pedo, he was mature for his age. Kind and so easy to talk to, with none of the baggage men her age and older lugged around. And sure, sometimes he referenced things that happened ‘in high school’, and she remembered that was less than five years ago and wanted to die, but it was worth it to be his best friend. To have a best friend.
She scanned the cabin for his mussy hair and spotted him chatting to someone in a corner. She almost laughed with relief at the sight of his friendly face. Then she saw who he was talking to.
A girl. No, not a girl. A woman. A sexy, dark-haired woman who was much older than him. They were leaning their heads together, so close they were almost nuzzling.
Cheryl stared at the woman. Even in the dim lamplight, she was obviously in her forties. Her feet went slippery inside her heels, and she wondered if she’d misunderstood the situation. Patrick, her Patrick, couldn’t possibly be flirting with…
What? an inner voice asked. Who?
She became aware her fists were clenched. Patrick said something and the woman laughed, tossing her glossy, black hair. Cheryl wanted to pull it out at the roots. Just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, Patrick gave the woman what she called his ‘aw shucks’ smile. His eyes crinkled and his chin ducked down. She wanted to slap him. That was her smile. He was giving her smile to that (don’t call her old, don’t call her old) woman who could have been his aunt except she was beautiful and glamorous, and Patrick was clearly besotted with her.
To her horror, angry tears welled in her eyes. She dashed them away, furious with herself, then turned and collided into a pregnant redhead. She recognised Beth, a good friend of Eden and Willow.
“Sorry!” she said. “I wasn’t… I didn’t see you.”
Beth flashed her a big smile. “That’s cool. Are you—”
But Cheryl couldn’t stay and talk. Still mumbling apologies, she ran to the nearest bathroom. It was mercifully empty, and she locked herself in a stall and sat on the closed toilet lid. Her temples were pounding, the headache so strong it was like she’d never not felt it.
Why was this happening? She’d seen Patrick with girls before. On more than a few drunken nights they’d disappeared with whoever they felt like taking home and she’d never been jealous. They would always meet up on Sunday for pancakes and coffee, and talk everything over and laugh until they cried. She’d been so proud of that. It had proved they were mature. That they were really friends.
Cheryl closed her eyes. I know things will get worse someday, but please God don’t let it be today.
The recitation jarred her. Opening her eyes, she realised it was the first time she’d used her mantra for anyone but her mother. She let out a small animal whimper.
“Hello?” someone called from her left. “Are you all right?”
Cheryl stayed quiet until the nice person flushed and exited the bathroom.
“What is wrong with you? You’re thirty-two, and you’re crying in the bathroom at a party! Patrick isn’t your boyfriend, he’s a twenty-three-year-old who sends you memes! Who cares if he’s hooking up with some—”
Old bag.
“—w-woman. This isn’t a big deal!”
But despite that, her eyes were still streaming tears. She angrily wiped them away and checked her phone. The yacht wasn’t docking for another hour. She couldn’t run away even if she wanted to.
“Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll deal with things the old-fashioned way.”
She emerged from the stall with a wad of toilet paper and carefully dabbed away her streaming mascara and eyeliner. She reapplied both, along with concealer and a fresh coat of blood-red lipstick. She highlighted her nose, pushed up her boobs, and headed back to the deck where she’d been talking to Raymond. Thankfully, he’d vanished. Ignoring the gorgeous sunset, she approached the tiny back bar. The booze was still free, so she got two margaritas. She’d pay for it tomorrow, but so what? Patrick was with someone else. Drinks in hand, she scanned the guests for the only other thing that might improve this shit show. A cluster of people were vaping by the railing. She approached them with her office smile in full force.
“Hi, could I please borrow a vape?” she asked a girl in an emerald choker. “I’ll give you some money?”
Emerald Choker handed her a mint-flavoured bar. “Take this one. I’ve got two.”
Cheryl gave her fifty bucks (a week’s worth of homemade lunches) and retreated to a private table. She’d quit nicotine six months ago, but why did that matter when Patrick was with someone else? She downed her first margarita and drew on the vape. It was menthol-y. Her head spun, but it only elevated her misery. Here she was single, alone, mostly broke, working a dead-end media job and smoking like most of her eggs weren’t already dead.
She opened her Pilates app and cancelled her Pilates class. Why ignore the inevitable? She was going to get drunk. Maybe she’d get drunk enough to walk into the cabin and throw her cocktail at knockoff Salma Hayek’s head. Tell her to go fuck someone her own age, like Santa Claus.
You’re being an asshole.
“I don’t care,” she told the voice.
