He didn’t keep her waiting. He never did.
Cool. That makes me feel better about what I did to your car.
She hurried to the office parking lot, wondering what the hell he’d done to her hundred-year-old Toyota Camry. It was in the back corner of the lot and seemed the same as ever. Disappointed, she walked to the driver’s side and saw what looked like a cup on the bonnet. A latte? That was sweet if a little misguided. But no, it was a succulent in a tiny pink pot. She picked it up. There was a yellow sticky note on the side.
You’re so awesome.
Present Day
Cheryl winced as her front wheels dipped into a pothole. The Heavenly Stays Motel parking lot was gross. The whole place was gross; an ageing, unfriendly mess of squat little apartments and peeling green doors. She already knew the suites would have mouldy curtains and sheets you’d rather put a sleeping bag on top of than get into. But she couldn’t fault Patrick’s choice, as far as sleazy hook-up locations went, Heavenly Stays was perfect.
She parked her car and stared through her windshield at the blinking neon sign.
The cheapest motel in Melbourne! it proclaimed. Rooms available!
“I’ll bet,” Cheryl muttered.
She knew what suite Patrick was waiting for her in; number twenty-three. She didn’t know if he’d chosen it because of his age, but she doubted it. He didn’t seem to be in a jokey mood.
She turned off the engine and pulled out her keys, her fingers twisting nervously. Patrick had texted what he wanted her to wear; jean shorts, cowboy boots, and a purple baby tee. It was the kind of thing she’d wear to a summer picnic and not what she’d been expecting. If she’d had to guess what Patrick might want for a one-night fuckfest, she’d have chosen her work clothes. The pencil skirts and high heels. But who knew what he had in mind?
Beside her was her ELK bag, packed to the brim with her sex toys.
She flushed looking at it. If she’d known Patrick had seen them in her room, she’d have thought about not displaying them. It seemed shameless in hindsight, like all her stupid, sexy outfits. What had she been thinking? Why hadn’t she tried harder to keep things platonic?
I’m in love with you. Head over fucking heels, KitKat.
“Not thinking about that,” she said sharply, as though to someone else. She was here to make some old-school bad decisions. That was why she had the sex toys in her bag, the vape in her pocket, the vodka in her glove compartment. Every vice present and accounted for. She pulled out the little bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig.
Patrick had texted her about other things besides her clothes. He seemed to have the whole night planned to a T.
If you want things to end, say ‘buddy,’ he’d written. If you can’t talk, do the finger circle thing, otherwise, I won’t listen and I won’t stop.
Is there anything you want me to do? she'd texted back, her mouth dry as a desert.
What you’re told.
She’d swallowed when she saw that, feeling evil and dirty and so turned on she couldn’t think. People said being healthy felt good, but hadn’t they tasted self-destruction? Drunk too much? Blown a month’s rent on coke? Fucked a bad ex? Smoked until it stung? Felt that dizzy, dizzy high that only came from blowing past safe and right into hell? If so, was she just different? Because awareness never stopped her from fucking things up. Not while she could walk those bad paths again and again and again.
Anything else? she wrote to Patrick. You can have everything, remember?
He didn’t reply for ten heart-stopping minutes.
You know that if this was up to me, it would all be different?
Every word was like a dagger, but again, awareness wasn’t going to change anything and it wouldn’t save their friendship.
I know, she wrote back. This is what I want.
Then this is what you get. See you at 10.
As she sat in her car, two versions of Patrick seemed to be battling in her head. The guy who peeled all the skin off his Kiwi fruit and loved the old Goosebumps movies and the man who’d gripped her hair and threatened to cum on her face.
Her friend.
Her lover.
How did anyone do those things with the same person? How did they join those halves together? She’d accused Patrick of Madonna-whoring her, but really she was doing the same thing to him.
