Her stomach churned. “Never.”
“Why not?”
Cheryl didn’t reply. How could she explain the hundreds, thousands, millions of murky thoughts and scenarios rushing through her head? She stood, tugging her friend’s arm. “Why are we even discussing this? We’re alone for the first time in ages and we’re at a party and we’re talking about boys.”
Eden gave her a rueful smile. “True.”
“So, let’s dance.”
“Bernie…”
“Come on. It’s been way too long since we danced to something that wasn’t The Wiggles.”
“But what about Pat—”
“I don’t care about Patrick.” This time she sounded a lot more convincing. “Seriously, George. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to have fun.”
“You’ve gone crackers, haven’t you? You’ve been banging dads for too long.”
“Whatever.” Cheryl tugged her arm harder. “Move, you magnificent skank!”
Eden got wearily to her feet. “For the record, Psycho’s besotted with you. I’m pretty sure he’d throw a drink in that chick’s face if you wanted him to.”
That bright, fluttering feeling in her soul returned. She shoved it away. “I don’t want him to. Drinks, then dancing.”
“Fine,” Eden grumbled, sounding so much like her scrappy, fourteen-year-old self that Cheryl managed a genuine smile. She wrapped an arm around Eden’s waist. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” Eden made a face. “Hang on. Now you’ve touched me, I just have to run to the bathrooms and do myself real fast.”
Cheryl forced herself to laugh as she mentally checked out of the party, her body, her life. It was a skill she’d learned in hospital waiting rooms—palpably, willfully, exiting reality. She couldn’t be here anymore, thinking about him. She needed to drink and dance. To force the heavy lid of fantasy on top of everything Patrick-related, and hold it there for as long as she possibly could.
3
Three years before the yacht party
It was past midnight and he and Cheryl were having their first fight. It started over beers at Stomping Ground. He’d asked for ‘another pint of XPA please, Chez?’ and Cheryl reacted like he said, ‘Fuck women, one vote per household!’
She jabbed a bright pink fingernail in his face. “Don’t call me Chez!”
Patrick, under the impression she was joking, laughed. “Why not? It’s cute.”
“I hate it!”
“So? That makes it more fun.”
“For you.”
“Exactly.” He held up his glass. “One pint of XPA please, Chez—”
Cheryl poked him in the face.
“Oww!”
“I warned you.”
“Not enough.” Patrick rubbed his cheek. “Girl nails are so sharp.”
“Everyone’s nails are sharp if you don’t bite them.”
