“Hi,” he said to Bridgette. “I’m here to see a friend?”
“Run?” Cheryl mouthed, but it was too late. Bridgette rounded on him, whiteboard marker raised like a baton.
“I don’t care who you want to see,” she hissed. “You can’t just waltz in here off the fucking street!”
Patrick’s big brown eyes went so wide he could have been a moo-cow. He put a big hand to his even bigger chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m Patrick Normal. I play for the Hammerhead Sharks?”
“That doesn’t…” Bridgette paused. “The AFL team?”
“Yeah. Derek Hardiman’s old team.”
Bridgette’s eyebrows shot up. She was obsessed with Derek Hardiman. Which, of course, Patrick knew, because his good friend Cheryl had told him.
“Derek?” Bridgette breathed. “How is he?”
“Great. And you must be Bridgette?”
Her boss’s giggle was worthy of any of the bitches Cheryl went to school with. “That’s me.”
“Great,” Patrick said with relief. “I’m so glad I caught you. I wanted to apologise for sending that singing teddy bear a few months ago. I didn’t mean to disrupt your office, I was playing a joke on my friend, Cheryl.”
Bridgette’s gaze snapped to her. Cheryl smiled as sweetly as she could.
“Disrupt the office?” Bridgette said with another tween giggle. “You’re kidding? I told everyone that bear was hilarious!”
Actually, she’d said it was an HR violation and threatened to fire the receptionist, but Cheryl kept her smile bright. If Patrick’s gambit came off, she’d be eating popcorn in no time…
“What are you working on?” Patrick asked with what sounded like genuine interest.
“A pitch for Athletic Aura. Have you heard of them?”
“They make decent hoodies, right?”
Bridgette visibly melted.
“Kiss ass,” she told Patrick as they power-walked to the cinema. “She only let us out because she wants you and, or, Derek Hardiman to fingerbang her.”
“I know,” Patrick said smugly. Then he looked worried. “I don’t actually have to post about those hoodies, do I?”
* * *
Present Day
Cheryl woke up as hungover as she’d ever been. Her head hurt, her throat hurt, but her heart hurt worst of all. She kept her eyes closed, knowing opening them would only make it worse.
She felt the bed beside her. Patrick was gone, because of course he was. She’d ruined everything. All the memories were there, uploaded as though by a separate device. Getting spittingly jealous of that hot older woman. Drinking and dancing with Eden. Patrick carrying her off the boat. Patrick at her front door. Patrick at the foot of her bed, his hands in his pockets, telling her she was too drunk to hook up…
With a surge of nausea, Cheryl remembered the moment she’d known she was going to throw up. And then she’d done it. Right in front of him. She shuddered in her sheets, raw as a dropped oyster. She ran the tap whenever she peed in the same building as Patrick and now, she’d yakked in front of him. He’d seen her all red-eyed and puffy-faced and stringy-haired and so, so disgusting.
But even as the memories stabbed at her, she knew that vomiting in front of her best friend wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was she’d thrown herself at him and he’d turned her down.
Cheryl loved sex. She always had. Discovering it as a broke-ass teenager was like finding a ruby in your backyard. Sex was free, it felt amazing, and it made hot guys notice you. You weren’t supposed to admit that—liking male attention—but that had never made sense to her. Putting on a tight dress and basking in male approval was fun. Taking off her second-hand clothes and being remade in some guy’s eyes as a sex goddess felt incredible. Other girls liked it too, she knew they did, but it was like some secret female bylaw—try to make men want you but never admit that’s what you’re doing, you whore.
Well, Cheryl liked looking good for men. She’d known early on she wasn’t anything special. Not talented like Eden, or smart like Beth, the podcast lady, or super-generous like Mara Hardiman. What she was was pretty with a body that made most men drool. She could thank her father for that, if nothing else. She hadn’t gotten her big ass and FF-cup boobs from her ultra-petite mother.
So, she leaned into her looks. And maybe she should be aiming higher, but whenever she left her mum’s apartment, exhausted and depressed, she just wanted to go to a bar with her boobs out and get hit on by a dozen dads. Have them buy her drinks and laugh at her jokes and make her feel all shiny new.
She wasn’t in a relationship, and she didn’t touch cheaters, so what did it matter? At the end of another long, hard day of having to exist, she gave herself a pass to enjoy getting men all hot and bothered.
