“I need to eat,” she wailed as Patrick succeeded in wringing another orgasm out of her swollen, dehydrated body. “I need to eat, and drink water and coffee, or I’ll die.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want you to die…” Patrick said, sucking his fingers clean. “Let me make you something.”
Cheryl imagined a long stretch in which she couldn’t touch him because he was pouring milk and making toast. “Why don’t we just get something delivered?”
“Because,” he peeled back the covers. “I’ve got it all figured out.”
“What?”
“What we’ll eat.”
She stared at him. “Don’t you normally have like… oats and kale with spirulina? Because I’m not eating that.”
He laughed. “I promise it won’t be healthy. I’ll do pancakes and bacon. And coffee. And eggs.”
It was such a neat list Cheryl became suspicious. “Have you been planning this?”
“Of course,” he said with zero self-consciousness. “Back in the day, I’d be in bed all hungover on Sunday mornings and I’d think about what would happen the first time you stayed over at my place. In my bed, I mean.”
She sat up straighter, pulling his sheets to her chest. “You did not.”
“I did. I’d think about the sex, obviously—
“Obviously.”
“—but after that, I’d think about how I was gonna make you pancakes with chocolate ice cream, and we’d sit on the balcony and eat. And I’d use my good plates and I’d put some flowers in a jar, and you’d be wearing one of my t-shirts and you’d smile at me that way that says you have nothing on your mind but good things… yeah, exactly like that.”
Cheryl touched a hand to her burning cheek. “So… I guess you should make me some food?”
“Guess so.” Patrick got to his feet and winced, rubbing his lower back. “Damn, I’m sore.”
“I’m not surprised. Although I seem to remember you saying you could fuck me into infinity without a single repercussion…?”
He straightened, folding his arms across his powerful chest. “Is that a challenge?”
“No,” she said, holding up her hands. “Please God, have mercy.”
He grinned, becoming so beautiful that it stung. “Fine. Why don’t you have a shower while I start cooking?”
“Okay.”
He lingered in the doorway, staring at her for a long moment before disappearing.
Cheryl’s smile faded. She pictured Patrick fantasising about cooking for her, playing out the food combinations and the exact way he’d lay out the table, and tears sprung into her eyes. It was so sweet and earnest and sad that he’d seen this all so long ago. Dreamed about it. She wanted to wrap him up and keep him from ever feeling sadness or disappointment, and at the same time she understood that she was the one who’d been responsible for his pain.
She hugged herself as her heart cracked like a shell, feeling all her regrets. But then it was time to move on.
After a long hot shower, she emerged from Patrick’s ensuite feeling more human. She found a folded Everlane t-shirt waiting on his newly made bed and pulled it on with a smile. It fell past her knees and she loved the feel of it against her skin, safe and warm. Her phone was waiting for her on the bedside table and when she picked it up, she saw it was almost four in the afternoon. She had sixteen messages. Five were from Bridgette and ten were from her colleagues, warning her about how pissed Bridgette was. One was from her mum.
Cee, the kitchen light has gone out again. If you’re not busy, can you come over and change the bulb? Love you
Her stomach sank. Her mum had to be really struggling. She checked her phone calendar. Felicity wasn’t due to come for another two days. She needed to get over there as soon as she could. A familiar panic swam in her head. She felt trapped between two realities. In one, she’d just slept with her best friend, and he was currently making her pancakes. In the other, her mum was alone, the walls of her ALS closing around her. The fantastical and the fucking awful, linked through her. She closed her eyes. I know things will get worse someday, but please God don’t let it be today. She crossed her fingers to seal the mantra in, then replied to her mum.
I’ll come over as soon as I’m free. I’ve got some leftover lasagne for you. I love you too, CeeCee
The message swooshed away, and she inhaled, exhaled. She’d eat with Patrick and leave. Real life had been delayed for this fantasy for long enough.
She walked down to the kitchen and found a shirtless Patrick humming as he cracked eggs into a bowl. She watched him whisk, back muscles flexing. The afternoon sun was coming in through his huge windows and his kitchen was as neat as a bread commercial. She wanted to stop time and keep him there. But then he turned to look at her, his smile fading as he whisked pancake mix. “Everything okay?”
