“Because—” Cheryl caught herself just in time. “I don’t. I just think it’s weird.”
“Mmm.”
Eden stayed quiet and Cheryl knew her friend was trying to wait her out, psychologist-style. She drank her margarita in silence.
“The chick Patrick’s hitting on is pretty cool,” Eden said in an annoying conversational tone. “I was chatting to her before. She’s some financial wizard. She and Mara are starting a football program for girls from low-income families.”
Cheryl’s stomach dropped to her feet. That sounded amazing. The kind of job she’d kill to be a part of and now she was going to have to hate it because that woman was involved.
“If she doesn’t have kids, what does that make her?” Eden wondered aloud. “What’s that word for a hot older chick that isn’t a mum?”
“A cougar,” Cheryl snapped, instantly annoyed at herself for knowing the answer.
“Yeah, a cougar,” Eden let out a blast of mint-flavoured smoke. “You know, it’s shit we don’t have a word for old guys who hook up with younger chicks. Like, that’s just considered normal.”
Cheryl said nothing. She was worried if she tried to talk, she’d throw up. Fake Salma Hayek had not only stolen her best friend, but Eden liked her and Mara Hardiman was working with her. And she had perfect fucking hair. God, what was the point of anything?
Eden tucked one leg into her chest and wrapped her arms around it. “Bernie?”
“Yeah, George?”
“You’ve always been a sexy ghost of a woman, a hot lady Bigfoot if you will…”
Cheryl snorted.
“What I’m trying to say is, as much as I respect your right to be mysterious, I feel it’s time to talk about your incredibly fucked up, extremely sexually charged friendship with Patrick Normal.”
No.
The internal answer came as loud as a police siren, but she retained enough control not to blurt it out. She took a pull on the vape, collecting herself.
“There’s nothing to say,” she told Eden in the calm, authoritative voice she’d used on teachers when she’d wanted to cut youth band and smoke weed. “I hope you can respect that I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You’re lying and I can’t,” Eden said cheerfully. “Seriously, Bern, you and Psycho are obviously more than friends. You’re all over each other all the time.”
“We cuddle!”
“Exactly.”
“It’s not like that. I’m a touchy person and so is he! Plus, skin hunger is a real thing.”
“I’m sure it is.”
Cheryl tried to take a dignified pull on the vape. It was a lot harder to do than with cigarettes. “There’s a mountain of research that shows hugging lowers stress.”
“Yes,” Eden said patiently. “And I think when you’re done de-stressing from all your totally platonic cuddles, Psycho goes and jacks off in your bathroom because he has a huge, fuck-off crush on you.”
Cheryl’s head swam. Suddenly the whole night seemed to turn on its side. “What?”
“He’s in love with you, dude. Or at the very least obsessed with you.”
Bile rose in Cheryl’s throat. “I know this is hard for you to get, but men and women can be friends—”
“Fuck off, Bernie. He calls you KitKat. You call him Patty-Bear. You guys hold hands. What the fuck is that about?”
“They’re just nicknames, and anyway they’re ironic.”
“How?”
