“That’s not all.” Cheryl cleared her throat. “I dunno about you, but I’m feeling twenty-one—”
“I’m feeling pretty sick,” he warned. “And if you get any closer singing that song, so will you.”
“How dare you interrupt me!” Cheryl raised the doughnut higher. “Happy birthday, dear sickest boy! Happy birthday to you!”
“I’m not the sickest birthday boy. I’m the sickest birthday man.”
“Of course, you are.” Cheryl pushed past him and into his apartment. “I’ll put this doughnut in the kitchen, then give you the rest of your presents!”
His stomach dropped. Cheryl had only been to his place twice and he’d cleaned it top to bottom beforehand. “Hang on, my house is a dump.”
“Who cares?” she called over her shoulder.
“I do!”
“Well, I don’t. Anyway, you’ve been sick. You’re allowed to live in a dump when you’re sick.”
Panicked, he followed her down the hall. His apartment looked even worse through fresh eyes, every surface covered in takeout bags, crumpled tissues and empty pill packets. But Cheryl didn’t seem grossed out. She cleared a space on his kitchen counter and put her pink backpack on it. “I made you chicken soup and mushroom risotto and I got you pink Powerade and some very special birthday antihistamines…”
Patrick’s swollen throat went even tighter. “You didn’t have to do this. I can handle being sick.”
“I know and that’s very cool and manly of you, but since you’re clearly dying alone on your birthday, I think I might stay and keep you company.”
“What if I get you sick?”
“I get time off work.” Cheryl climbed over the back of his couch and dropped onto the cushions. “What are we watching?”
“Possession.”
Cheryl clutched her hands to her chest. “I love that so much. C’mon, birthday man. Let’s watch some bitch go crazy in a train tunnel and try to make this not the worst milestone birthday ever.”
Patrick took the seat beside hers. As far as he was concerned, it was already a first-tier milestone birthday.
* * *
Present Day
His best friend was flirting with another man, and Patrick was fine with that. At least that’s what he told himself as he drained the last of his scotch and soda. He leaned over the edge of the yacht and pretended to be looking for non-existent seals and snuck another glance at Cheryl.
She was minuscule, even in sparkling stilettos. Her red dress clung to her flawless body, showing off her big tits and tiny waist. Her plump, round ass. Her dark hair was loose, curling to just above said ass. It was the kind of hair you couldn’t help imagining spread across your pillow and wrapped up in your fist. But then she piled it in a bun on top of her head and looked so adorable, Patrick just wanted to tuck her into his pocket. She had huge dark eyes like a sugar glider and when she smiled, it was like the sun coming up over the ocean.
He watched her sip her sparkling wine, her lips liquid red and pouty.
At a black-tie yacht party full of WAGS, influencers, and models, Cheryl was still the hottest thing for miles. The prettiest girl he’d ever seen. Would ever see. He’d known that the night they met. He’d been high as balls on MDMA, wandering around a techno gig looking for his mates when out of nowhere came a goddess. He and Cheryl locked eyes and the chemical haze in his head lifted.
It’s her, he’d thought. The one. Holy shit.
… And then he’d made a total cock of himself and earned a one-way ticket to ‘never gonna happen, champ.’
She liked him. They were great friends, but in the back of his mind, he’d hoped she’d see him as something more one day. He’d clocked in four years hoping it. If his football stats were as shitty as his romantic ones, he’d be banned from professional sport.
He was so fucking in love with Cheryl.
He was so fucking screwed.
The man she was talking to was old. Everyone Cheryl hit on was old.
This dude was at least fifty, in douchebag wayfarers and a three-piece suit. He kept touching Cheryl, his wrinkly hand brushing her gold-skinned one. She didn’t seem to mind. Of course, she didn’t. Cheryl had a thing for older guys, and he had a thing for her. A million things.
