Taste it and say,
‘Mmm, just like yesterday!’
Work the cow,
Chew the meat.
The same is better
Than sweet.
And sour milk
Is still milk.
Sour milk
Is still milk.
It was crazy, but something about having a trance song written about her dead-end relationship changed things. The next time she and Carlo fought, she’d been the one to leave and she’d never gone back.
She thought she’d changed. Tried to build a nice life for herself with a good job and zero debt. To save for a cute apartment no one could take away from her. But maybe she was still drinking sour milk and calling it cream. It felt like it.
She ran a palm across Eden’s back. “Maybe I’ll meet someone soon. A nice guy with grown up kids who loves me, and we’ll buy a house together and I’ll be happy.”
“Maybe you’ve already met someone. A sexy football player who worships you and has enough money to make a significant amount of your problems go away.”
Cheryl extracted another Marlboro from her pack. “I love you for trying to help me, but Patrick just isn’t the guy.”
“Okay.” Eden headed back over to the couch and picked up her jacket. “I should go.”
“Sure.” Cheryl lit her cigarette and drew. “Thanks for coming to see me.”
“Anytime.” Eden pulled on her coat and extracted her keys with a jangle. “He’s transferring, you know. Patrick.”
“What?”
“He’s leaving. He wants to go back home to WA.”
She shot to her feet and was beside Eden in seconds. “He can’t—”
“He can. He’s devastated and he doesn’t want to live here when everything reminds him of you.”
“But—”
“No.” Eden held up her hand like a traffic cop. “Either you don’t want him, so you let him go, or you do want him, so you grow up and admit it. You have all the power here, Bernie. Pretending you don’t is just cunt behaviour. Make the fucking call.”
She slipped out the front door, leaving Cheryl to face the dawn alone.
11
Two years before the yacht party
Patrick sat on a locker bench and pulled his jersey over his aching shoulders. Training had gotten intense in the lead up to the Bulldogs game. The Dogs were on top of the ladder and his kicking had been off all week. He was terrified he was going to choke on Saturday. It didn’t help his whole family was coming to Marvel Stadium. Aunts, uncles, cousins, the works. They were making him a banner. Who wanted to lose a game when your whole family was there waving a homemade sign that said, ‘Go, Patrick, Go!’
He picked up his phone. Cheryl’s face was flashing on the screen. An old photo of her with ice cream on her nose. Smiling, he answered. “What’s new, pussycat?”
“Patrick, hi, sorry, someone’s following me down the street.”
