Cheryl ignored her. “And it’s nice to hold hands! I hold hands with Jupiter!”
Eden pounded a fist into her forehead. “You can clearly keep doing this forever, so I’ll just ask. Cheryl, do you maybe, maybe, have romantic and fuck-based feelings for Patrick?”
It was so strange to hear Eden call her ‘Cheryl.’ Like when a cop drove past and she didn’t have her seat belt on. For years they’d only referred to each other by their fathers’ names. A fuck you to the men who’d created and then tried to ruin them. Cheryl stared into Eden’s green eyes and found she couldn’t hold her gaze. Her friend was rarely serious, but right now she meant business.
“Of course, I love him,” she said. “But it’s not like that. I’m more like his big—”
“Please, dear God, don’t say ‘sister.’”
“—sister. I am like his big sister.”
“Yeah, but like… what kind of sister?”
“Don’t be gross!”
Eden made a pouty face. “Ooh, I’m trapped, step bro! Trapped under the bed! You’re gonna have to fuck me out again! It’s the only way!”
Cheryl whacked Eden’s arm, but as she did, she became aware her mood had brightened, as though someone had turned on a hundred fairy lights in her soul. Her mind flashed to where it was never allowed to go—Patrick’s laptop, the video of the girl who looked like her, bent over the bed; the guy who looked like him with his jeans shoved down around his hips…
“Just so you know, I’m taking your expression as evidence you want to be Psycho’s porn sister.”
“I hate you so much, George.”
“Seriously, dude. It’s fine for you to like Patrick.”
“I don’t like Patrick, I like dads, remember?”
“Yeah, but isn’t that, like, a ‘low expectations-meets-Freud’ thing? Not a hardcore fetish?”
Cheryl groaned. “Why do I ever tell you things?”
“Because you love me. So, you don’t think he’s hot?”
“Who, Patrick?”
“No, some other strapping beast of football player with big puppy dog eyes.”
“Exactly! Puppy dog eyes. He’s cute.”
“And his huge, jacked body and massive bulge? Is that cute?”
Cheryl chewed her lower lip. She’d seen Patrick shirtless a hundred times, throwing on a fresh hoodie in his living room or beside her at the beach. It was an undeniably impressive sight but she’d always looked away. It wasn’t right to perv on a friend, no matter how ripped they were. And as far as Patrick’s bulge was concerned—yes, girls on social media pointed out his football shorts left little to the imagination, but that was too inappropriate to think about, let alone investigate.
“I don’t see Patrick that way. I know he’s in good shape but he’s just a kid.”
Eden laughed. “There’s denial and there’s delusion. Psycho isn’t some tween. He’s a grown man and he’s sexy. I’d do him.”
“George!”
“What?” Her friend looked around, then leaned in. “Get me a babysitter, a hotel room, and some weed gummies, and I’d let him and Willow double-tag me all night.”
Cheryl knew Eden was trying to wind her up, but she had a sudden, vicious urge to slap her friend in the face. Instead, she dug her nails into her own palm. “Patrick is cute.”
“No, he’s smoking hot. Every straight woman on earth wants to jump him and not because they’re secret paedophiles, because he’s smoking hot.”
Cheryl stared out into the blackness and drained the last of her margarita. Maybe Patrick and Fake Salma were making out by now. Holding each other close and kissing in that way that said you’d found someone who mattered.
Eden’s hand landed on hers. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Bernie. I think you should go out with Patrick.”
