That’s cool. I’m one of those assholes that bring their own chips and scrunch the bag the whole time.
Cheryl laughed, really laughed, for the first time since she’d got to Germany, maybe longer.
Someone pounded on the adjoining wall and not in a sex way.
“Cheryl?” Willow called. “You okay?”
“Fine,” she yelled back. “Your mate Patrick is funny.”
A brief pause.
“Not as funny as me, right?”
“Ignore him,” Eden shouted through the wall. “I’m glad you’re giving Patrick a chance.”
“Cool!” Cheryl lowered her voice. “A chance to have a twenty-nine-year-old social media consultant as a friend.”
She replied to Patrick’s message.
You’re a monster, but we’re still going to the movies. That’s how bad I need a horror buddy.
He laugh-reacted to her message.
Patrick Normal, horror buddy. Reporting for duty.
“Yes,” Cheryl told her screen. “Let’s be buddies, Patrick Normal. Let’s be extremely platonic buds.”
1
Three years and eight months before the yacht party
Patrick scrubbed his nose with a tissue and grimaced. His nostrils were raw, his whole body throbbing like a broken strobe light. On his TV, Sam Neill was saying something that looked important, but he could barely hear through his swollen sinuses. He turned up the volume for the millionth time, praying his neighbours weren’t pissed at the noise. He might need them to call an ambulance.
His phone flashed, a text from his sister-in-law, Brenda.
Happy birthday, Youngest! Sorry you couldn’t make it. Hope you’re not too miserable! xxx
Patrick sighed. He was supposed to fly to Rockingham this weekend for his twenty-first but he’d come down with the flu of the century. His new niece was immunocompromised, and no one wanted to get her sick. That was fair enough, but now his family kept messaging every twenty minutes like he was going to die from a lack of digital hugs.
It was sweet, but they didn’t need to worry. It was only his twenty-first birthday, and since he could already drink, drive, and gamble, it was a pretty overrated milestone.
Still, as he scrubbed his burning nose, he did feel a bit sorry for himself. This was his first ever birthday without a cake and presents and his brothers punching his age into his arm. Not getting a birthday cake was a small price to pay to play pro football in Melbourne, but he missed his family like crazy. Especially on rainy days. They were all on the beach right now, surfing and chatting and laughing…
His doorbell rang, the sound echoing through his apartment. Patrick paused the movie. He hadn’t ordered anything. Maybe someone from the Sharks had remembered it was his birthday and stopped by?
He staggered to his feet, collecting as many used tissues as he could and hiding them under the couch. The doorbell rang again. Definitely a visitor.
“I’m sick,” he yelled down the hall. “You might wanna put on a mask or something.”
No response. Frowning, he headed to the door and opened it.
Cheryl beamed up at him. She was wearing a cropped purple t-shirt and cowboy boots and looked so pretty it hurt his aching eyes. “Hey, birthday lad.”
Patrick grinned. Pain shot across his cheeks reminding him he was currently a sweaty, red-nosed mess in front of the most beautiful woman in the world. Wincing, he turned his face away. “You shouldn’t have come around. I feel like shit.”
“I know, but I had to. I needed to get rid of this.” Cheryl held up a chocolate doughnut with a ‘21’ candle stuck on top.
He smiled another painful smile. “Thanks.”
