“Shit!”
Cheryl flew to her bathroom, stripping off her clothes as she went. She jumped in the shower, registered that it was squeaky clean, and started scrubbing herself like it was the cure for cancer. She washed her hair, exfoliated her face, and re-shaved her legs and underarms. The second she was done, she leaped out and started brushing her teeth with one hand and moisturising with the other. She had no idea what she was going to say to Patrick, but she knew she needed to look good. Amazingly, impossibly good. So good, Patrick would forget she’d ever gotten sloppy drunk and acted like a crazy bitch.
She blow-dried her hair, then threw open her make up bag to firefight the damage her hangover had done to her face. Mercifully, she wasn’t super puffy, but her skin was washed out and her eyes were red. She dabbed on layer after layer of primer, concealer, highlighter, and foundation. She covered her inflamed waterline with a white pencil, painted her lids pale gold, and applied neutral lip gloss. By the time she blasted herself with hydrating setting spray, she was wearing as much make up as she’d put on for the boat party, but she looked a billion times better than she did five minutes ago.
Patrick’s coming back, her mind chattered on a loop. Patrick’s coming back. Patrick’s coming back.
Some internal clock told her she was running out of time, so she sprinted to her bedroom and ripped open her closet. She needed something that said, ‘I’m cute, also please eject your memories of the last twelve hours into space?’
It wasn’t an easy call.
She settled for a pink cropped tee and a denim mini skirt. Girly stuff. She tried a bra but the lines under the baby tee were awful. She whipped her bra off, dressed, then put on her favourite leopard print tile necklace, and then took that off, too. She wasn’t wearing anything associated with big cats while she apologised to Patrick. And she needed to apologise. As she whizzed back to her bathroom mirror to apply winged liner, it became obvious that not only had he taken care of her while she was sick, he’d cleaned up after her. Her shower was sparkling, her toilet immaculate and when she went to the laundry, she found her towel and bathmat were in the washing machine, having already gone through a cycle. The man was one of the top human beings to ever exist and she’d been a drunk, sloppy pervert to him.
She pulled her soaking towels into the dryer and as she lifted them, she found something stuck to the side of one. Her black g-string. She lifted it with a finger and remembered being on all fours—God she was such a tease—with her ass up, begging Patrick to screw her. He’d been standing there, his sweet face all hard angles. She remembered the bulge in the front of his suit pants, that thick length, as big as the rest of Patrick Normal. Heat spiralled through her, tinged with relief. Whatever happened, at least he’d been a little bit turned on. But then why hadn’t he wanted to touch her?
It doesn’t matter, she warned herself, but it was too late. She was already picturing Patrick putting a knee on the bed, unbuttoning his white shirt, ‘Lie back, KitKat. Let me taste your cunt.’
The knock on her front door was like a machine gun firing. She dropped the g-string back into the washing machine and slammed it closed.
Silence rang around her apartment. She thought about going back to bed, pulling her blanket over her head, and pretending none of this had ever happened.
Another knock, this time a little faster. She nipped at her thumbnail. She couldn’t run. The only thing meaner than the way she’d treated her best friend last night would be to ghost him now.
Pull yourself together, Cheryl.
Despite her preparations, she didn’t feel ready. She knew things would never be the same between them, but allowing that fact to enter her apartment was… too much. At least alone she could pretend she was in control. With trembling fingers, she walked to the entrance and opened the door. “Hey, um, sorry about last night, but—”
She had glammed up for this meeting, but she was unprepared for how good Patrick Normal looked in his big grey hoodie, a coffee in each hand. His skin was extra glowy and the morning sunshine seemed to be trapped in his eyes.
“Hey.” He grinned his toothpaste commercial smile. “How are you feeling?”
Cheryl felt like someone had shot her. She stepped back to let him in, lost for words. Patrick came moseying into her apartment like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t seen her naked and yakking into the toilet like a total embarrassment.
He held out the coffee. “Oat latte.”
She took it, carefully avoiding his long, suntanned fingers. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
His eyes. His eyes belonged to a Cavoodle puppy. The kind that made you buy more expensive Kleenex just because they were on the box. She looked away. “How was your morning?”
“I’d say ‘better than yours’ but you look beautiful. I’d never pick you for hungover.”
This was not going the way she wanted. She backed onto her couch and sat, heart racing. “You must be so mad at me.”
His brow creased. “Why?”
Why?
Why?!
She sipped her coffee. It clashed horribly with the minty toothpaste taste in her mouth, but she kept drinking just to have something to do. Maybe he was just pretending everything was fine. Trying to soften her up before he dropped the ‘what the fuck was last night about?’ bomb.
“Are you sure you’re okay, KitKat?”
The nickname brought on a rush of memory. The feel of his cock, hard through his suit pants, as they rode back to her apartment. The look on his face as he stood before her bed. KitKat, you’re being a bad girl…
“I’m fine,” she lied. “I just… I think we should talk.”
