But Cheryl didn’t need to think; she already knew. Once she’d let her own dreams of happiness burn out—around 2008 or so—all her mum had wanted was for her to have the wedding, the house, the husband, the life she’d always dreamed of. It was infuriating the way she hid herself away from the world while expecting her child to embrace every opportunity to take up space. She’d felt that way Cheryl’s whole adult life. Her mum might not want to be at the wedding—might be insisting on wearing a veil the entire time so no one could see her ALS-affected face—but Cheryl knew she wanted her to shine so brightly her bridal light blinded everyone in the eastern suburbs. Maybe even flashed across the Atlantic Ocean and into her deadbeat dad’s eyes.
Whenever she’d seen her mum, Cheryl had told her the wedding was entirely under control because if Sharon Walker got involved, she’d urge Patrick to heights of wedding opulence seen only in dictators and reality TV stars.
‘Nothing but the best for my baby girl,’ she’d say while refusing to let anyone but a handful of staff at her nursing home visit her room—rules for thee, not for me.
Cheryl started sobbing then, genuinely sobbing. Patrick held her as he always did, rocking her softly against his chest, and as she cried, Cheryl felt her fear tugging away like unravelling wool, collecting in the cool water of the pool. Their pool.
“Thank you,” she mumbled. “I’m glad we talked.”
“Me too. Thanks for being honest.”
“Does that mean we can get rid of the horses?”
He laughed. “If you want to, of course we can.”
“I don’t really mind. I’m just scared the football bitches are gonna think I’m silly.”
“You don’t need to be intimidated by them.”
“But they’re terrifying!”
He gave her a stern look. “They’re not. They remind you of the girls you went to school with. They’re mostly harmless and excited about the wedding.”
“I know.” Cheryl rubbed her face against his shoulder like a grumpy kitten. “Whatever.”
“Good KitKat. Besides, you’re more beautiful than all of them put together.”
“Kasun’s girlfriend is a literal supermodel…”
“Ah, she’s too skinny. Gimmie a girl with curves any day.” His hands slid down her back, cupping her butt. “That’s the stuff.”
Cheryl giggled. “I might make a half-assed bride, but I’ll always have a full ass.”
“You will.” Patrick squeezed then let go. “Baby, I’ll stop trying to figure out what the perfect thing for the wedding might be, butyou need to tell me the things you really can’t stand so we can change them. It’s not too late.”
“I know, but?—"
“Forget about me. Forget about your mum. What do you want?”
She thought about it for a moment. “Can we not do the bouquet toss? It’s cringe.”
“Done. What else?”
“That thing where you take the garter off my leg and throw it to all your boys so everyone can make sex jokes at us?”
“Cancelled. Next?”
“Ooh, I demand to buy my mum’s wedding outfit.” She pointed accusingly at Patrick. “No secret deposits. No sneak behaviour. I wanna pay foreverything.”
“Sold. Go on?”
Cheryl frowned. “I dunno. I might need to get a list with all my thoughts together. Is that okay?”
“KitKat,” Patrick said, a funny look on his face. “Everything you want is okay. Always.”
She was too wrung out, tired and wet to cry again. She decided to save the flick of pleasure-pain at Patrick’s words for later. There was always time to cry tomorrow. Tomorrow or next week. Twenty years from now.
“God, it’s really getting light now,” Patrick said. “Right, Future Mrs Normal, should we go inside and try to clean the tail? I really wanna keep it…”
