I’m stuck in a motel, and I don’t know what to do.
He barely had time to wonder if that even made sense—maybe Willow would think he’d Jumanji-ed himself—when his friend called.
With shaking fingers, he answered. “Hello?”
“I’m coming,” Willow said over a jangle of keys. “Where are you?”
An hour later he was dressed in Willow’s rugby jersey and sweatpants, speeding down the Calder freeway in his friend’s Porsche. Willow had force-fed him Hydralyte, cleaned up the motel bathroom, packed his bag, and checked him out.
“Thank you,” Patrick kept saying. “Thank you, thank you. You’re the best.”
“I know,” Willow said, tapping the steering wheel. “But I lied. I’m not taking you back to your place. We’re going to mine.”
“Nooo, I don’t want Jupiter to see me all fucked up,” Patrick mumbled, his eyelids so heavy he could hardly stay awake.
“Don’t worry about it. She and Eden are at some ice-skating thing. Go to sleep. We’ll be home before you know it.”
Gratitude and misery welled inside him like an avalanche. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll pay you back, I’ll give you anything you want—”
“Shush, mate. Just rest. We can get into it at home.”
“But—”
“Patrick?” Willow said with infinite tenderness. “When you talk, it’s like someone’s boiling a bucket of drain-o. Please, for the love of Christ, shut up.”
Grinning in spite of everything, he closed his eyes and fell asleep against the window.
The sun was setting when they got to St Kilda Beach. He let Willow lead him up to the guest house and shove him in a shower.
“Spare toothbrushes in that drawer, clean clothes on the bed. Use every soap we have, then come up to the house to eat.”
He did what he was told, making the water as hot as he could and scrubbing every inch of himself with mint shower gel. Cheryl would be done with work for the day. Where was she now? At home? In a bar? Did she hate him? Was she lonely?
He dressed clumsily in more of Willow’s clothes and walked the sandy path back to the main house. Willow was in his massive kitchen, heating tomato soup and making sandwiches.
“Almost done,” he said cheerfully. “Take a seat.”
Patrick sat at the kitchen bench feeling about nine years old. He remembered Willow dressing him like a little kid at the motel, tying his boots for him before going to reception for fresh towels. “I’m so sorry. I’m such an idiot.”
Willow looked over his shoulder at him. “I once broke my ex’s coffee table, called her dad a cunt, pissed her bed, then went into the spare bed and pissed that too.”
Patrick laughed, and it was a relief to know he still could. “That’s different.”
“Yeah. It’s worse.”
“Not much worse.”
Willow put a bowl of soup and a spoon in front of him. “All you did was get drunk in a shithole motel and let the shower overflow. And if that’s the worst thing that happens in that room this week, it’ll be a fucking miracle. Eat.”
Patrick picked up his spoon and found he was actually hungry. He finished in record time and Willow refilled his bowl and gave him a ham sandwich. As he tore into it, he felt his friend staring at him. “Alright, what the fuck happened? What were you even doing on that side of town?”
“I wanna tell you, but I’m not done being sorry for making you babysit me yet.”
“We’re mates. You get to be babysat by your mates.”
“When am I gonna babysit you?”
“I’m a dad and old as fuck. You’re twenty-three.”
