“Never. Arms up.”
He dressed her quickly, squinting so she was reduced to slits. Her hair was still soaking but as long as it was clean, he figured it didn’t matter. He returned her to her bed and went back to the workout drawer. She had a big firefighter t-shirt he knew would fit him. He threw it over his head and heard a small sob.
He froze. She couldn’t be… Cheryl never cried. In the history of their relationship, he’d cried more than she had. Once, when they were watching the Adam Goodes documentary; the other time when they were having coffee and he found out his favourite English teacher had cancer.
Another small sob.
He was on the bed in a second, his arm around her. “KitKat, everything’s okay.”
“It’s not!” Her eyes were screwed shut, tears forcing their way from under her lids. “I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything.”
“You haven’t! You just threw up. Everyone does it.”
“I don’t… It’s not about that.”
“Then what?”
She drew a quivering breath. “I’m so glad. I’m so h-happy for you. That you met someone.”
In a night full of chaos, this still gave him whiplash. “Huh?”
“You like her. That woman. I could see it in your face.”
He stayed quiet, annoyed at himself for the thrill her jealousy about Lola gave him. This had been Beth’s plan. The way he would make Cheryl see him as more than just a friend. It had obviously worked, but they couldn’t talk about it now. Not when she’d already had such a terrible night. He felt her shoulders shaking and his chest tore open. Part of him wanted to say, ‘Lola doesn’t mean anything to me. You’re my whole life,’ but who knew if Cheryl was even sober enough to process what he was saying? He brushed a finger over her back. “Go to sleep, KitKat. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Will you stay here with me?”
“Of course.”
“Cool,” she mumbled, pulling the duvet over them. “I love you, Patrick…”
His heart cracked like a dropped glass.
“… you’re my best friend.”
She went still beside him and as he lay staring at the fairy lights, he wondered if anyone in the history of the friendzone had ever had a worse night.
5
Three years before the yacht party
Cheryl wanted to scream. It was quarter to eight and she was still in the office. Athletic Aura wanted to pull their social media accounts and Bridgette had bullied everyone into staying back to ‘come up with fresh pitches.’ As if anyone could find new ways of getting hot people to wear leggings. And pineapple-print leggings at that.
Every Tuesday, she and Patrick went to Hawthorn Cinema and watched whatever screened at eight. They chomped popcorn, drank watery cola, and laughed until their insides hurt. It was the highlight of her week and now she was stuck here, trying to think of how to bribe influencers into wearing cheap-ass hoodies.
She slid her phone under her desk and texted Patrick.
Bridgette’s still cuckoo about Athletic Aura. I’ll try and get out soon, but maybe we should bail? Spare ourselves the sadness?
Patrick replied, but Bridgette paced toward her before she could read his message.
“All these video pitches are low class,” Bridgette said, brandishing her whiteboard marker in Cheryl’s face. “This is your area. What are we missing? What’s the elegant way to get Athletic Aura trending?”
Cheryl smiled weakly. She liked her job, but sometimes she missed being Eden’s social media manager. The pay was bad, but at least she got free ketamine. “I know Athletic Aura wants a viral campaign, but their data shows people who buy their stuff aren’t super active on social media. Maybe we could approach them with a campaign like the one Target—”
“Target?” Bridgette’s eyes bulged. “Target!?”
Cheryl could feel her co-workers giving her sympathy stares. She’d done it now. Not only was she going to miss the movie, Bridgette was going to blame her for losing the Athletic Aura account. Her boss rolled back her shoulders, always a sign she was about to start screaming. Then the bell that hung over the front door tinkled. Everyone turned to look at the late arrival and when Cheryl saw who it was, she wanted to throttle him. Patrick loped around the receptionist’s desk, smiling sheepishly. In his bomber jacket, his chestnut hair freshly cut, he looked even more like the lead in a YA romance movie than usual.
