And then Patrick…
She’d never had a male friend before him, at least not one she hadn’t flirted with. And she’d known there was potential for that, but he was so sweet and funny and cool that for the first time in her life, she’d steered the relationship right into platonic friendship. For the first year, she’d only worn baggy jeans and t-shirts around him. Didn’t even put on lipstick if they were meeting for lunch. She never talked about sex or tried to be cute. She didn’t even leave her hair down in case she accidentally twirled it around her finger. She’d been smart. She’d been mature. Eventually, she’d grown to trust herself. To think she and Patrick would always be friends. She’d started dressing the way she usually did and talking about her dates—if Patrick asked. But still, she never tried to get him to look at her That Way. He was her best friend. The one man she never wanted to cross that line with. Until now.
Pressing her palms into her aching eyes, Cheryl saw it all happen again. Her jealousy, her self-indulgent drinking, her attempts at a big song-and-dance seduction as Patrick stood bemused at the foot of her bed, probably wishing he could leave.
She’d tried to hit on him and failed. Failed and puked everywhere.
Cheryl gave in. She screamed, one long, siren wail of grief. It tore at her aching throat and opened her like a wound.
When she was young, she hadn’t been good at handling guys. Or herself. Or anything.
She’d wanted the validation so badly she’d run like a slutty startled deer toward anyone who made her feel good. Usually drunk, sometimes high, always with zero self-awareness, she’d stumbled. She’d started fights and torpedoed friendships and got thrown out of debutante balls and seduced nice boys and puked all over them. She’d been Sloppy Cheryl. Drunk Cheryl. Skanky, Self-Destructive Cheryl. And the only way she could live with those memories was thinking she’d outgrown them. Left the tacky behaviour behind like her pink highlights and her shitty second-hand backpack.
So not only had she ruined her most important friendship, she’d spent a decade lying to herself, because when the chips were down, she’d let herself go just like she used to, getting wasted and screaming ‘I never met my daddy, and my mummy’s sick! Take care of me, any man. Take care of me, EVERY man! I’m a helpless little baby! Wahhh, wahhh, wahhhhhhhhh!’
And she’d let Patrick see her like that. Lovely, sweet, twenty-three-year-old Patrick. Tears stung Cheryl’s eyes and she knuckled them away. It was painful enough being a total cliché, without crying about it. After all, there were people suffering in the world and one of them was her mother. Whatever else happened today, she needed to take care of her.
Unable to face the prospect of moving, she made a mental list. Wash the sheets, make coffee, shower, and brush her teeth. There was no way she could work this hungover. She’d have to get up at five tomorrow to finish the work she’d left for today. Her bedside clock said it was ten-thirty so she could spend the rest of the morning bleaching her bathroom, doing her laundry, and cooking her mum’s meals for the week. Lasagne and green curry. Things she could microwave in portions and eat with just a fork.
By late afternoon she’d be sober enough to drive them over, and wash her mum’s floor, and sort her mail, and if Patrick called—
No, it didn’t matter if Patrick called. She already knew what he’d say. ‘Thanks, but big nah on our friendship, you gross moron.’
More politely, because he was nothing if not nice, but that would be the gist. And that was fine. She’d lost people before and lived with it. Maybe it would make life easier, not having to worry if he was going to find his forever girlfriend and run off, leaving her clutching a bucket of cold popcorn to the Patrick-shaped hole in her life. That hole could just be there. Wasn’t that better?
The thought got Cheryl up and out of bed. She stood, swaying as though she was still on the party boat. She couldn’t see her phone. Hopefully it was in the kitchen with her wallet and keys. Ignoring her throbbing head, she pulled the sheets off her mattress. She’d find everything she’d puked on and then—
Cheryl stopped in her tracks. She and Patrick had showered together. He’d seen her naked. He’d washed her hair.
Her scalp tingled at the memory of him massaging it, the feel of the shampoo running down her breasts and stomach as he stood over her like a glorious gold statue. She was sure she’d been fully naked. Had he been naked? Had she seen his—
“No,” she said aloud. “No. Never.”
She walked into her living room and scanned for destruction. Her apartment was tiny and therefore cluttered, but she tried to keep it clean. To her surprise, everything looked normal. The only sign of her bad behaviour was her knockoff Chloe purse lying next to her front door.
Gingerly, she bent to collect it and found her phone and bank cards inside. Her keys were on the kitchen counter. She allowed herself a second’s relief before unlocking her phone and checking her bank balance. With a sinking heart, she saw she had forty bucks left. She’d paid for the Uber to the party and transferred Patrick money for the present they’d given the Hardimans, and she’d paid a late fee on the Pilates class she’d cancelled. She stared at the forty dollars, despair rising in her like a black abyss. She had no money for meat. She’d have to make her mother vegetarian lasagne and red lentil pasta.
She mentally beat back her panic. “It’s gone and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ll just have to skip lunch this week.”
Exiting her banking app, she saw her mum had sent a text.
Hi Cee, are you still coming by today? I love you xx
Despite her medical issues, Sharon Walker was proud to a fault. A text like this was basically an SOS. Cheryl replied.
Of course, I’ll be there this afternoon. I love you too.
Great. I can’t wait to see you!
Tears threatened and Cheryl blinked hard. She stumbled for her kettle, wondering how much caffeine she’d have to ingest to feel halfway normal, and then she saw it. A note was leaning up against her Catwoman figurine, unmissable to anyone who wasn’t insanely hungover. She picked it up, her mouth dry. Had Patrick written her a goodbye? Said he hated her? That she was ancient and gross, and he’d called the cops about her harassment?
Gone home for new clothes, I’ll be back with coffee. Don’t be mean to my KitKat, she’s amazing.
Patrick
xx
All the air left Cheryl’s lungs. She read the note again. Then again. Then again, her mouth so dry her tongue was sticking to the back of her lips. Patrick wasn’t mad. He’d called her ‘Kitkat.’ He said she was amazing. He was coming back with coffee. He was coming back.
