“He wasn’t with Jenny back then,” Cece continues, too lost in the memory to hear me. “And Will told me Tristan was just being mean to impress Yasmin Banks. And Tristan didn’t want anyone to notice me because I’m so…”
“Pretty?” I suggest, with a brief flicker of hope.
“Awesome,” she gushes, like that’s even better. “Then he said he was getting the last of his Lion Reds out of the fridge, and I could have one.”
Cece looks at me with expectation shining in her eyes.
I’m supposed to say something nice. “That was cool of him.”
“It wassonice!” Cece quivers like a wet kitten. “He gave me one of his beers—hisown beers—and sat with me on the stairs anddrank with me.He asked me how netball was going, and I swear, Ada, he was so nice to me and not just because I was Tristan’s sister.”
I’m in town next week, Addy. Can I get a ticket to your show?
“Then Tristan came out and took a picture and said he’d send it to Mum and Dad if I didn’t go back upstairs. But I didn’t even care. I was just so happy to have hung out with Will. He really saw me. Not just saw me, talked to me.”
She blushes and looks away, smiling. “He let me help him with Bio after that. He was always so cute about it; I knew he liked me back at least a little bit. I figured if we spent a bit more time together, he’d see that we were...”
I finish the sentence in my head… meant to be together. Jesus Fucking Christ.
I force myself to smile. “That’s a sweet story.”
“Isn’t it?”
I take a long swig of tequila and swallow my honest response, which is:No, Cece, you beautiful fool. No, it isn’t.
Even if Will Sharpe wasn’t a walking study in mediocrity, that stairway-beer storyisn’tsweet. A drunk guy telling a girl she’s ‘awesome’ on his way to get another can? Wow. Somebody call the fucking Hallmark Channel.
But then I look at Cece, humming softly to herself, and it clicks. She was a lonely teenager with a permanent hunch from hiding both her height and spectacular tits. Forever overshadowed by her asshole brother, who did things like banish her upstairs while everyone else had fun at his shitty party. Then, lo and behold, a cute boy wandered up and treated her like something other than background noise, and she fell head over heels. I can understand that. I just wish Cece had seen the light after Will hooked up with Jenny ‘Slavering Fish-Chimera’ Wallis and demoted her to ‘Unpaid Bio Tutor.’
But no, she’s still chasing that magical stairway moment. Only, much like Will’s online comment, the magic of it is coming from inside her own brain, not the objective behaviour of Will Sharpe, human colostomy bag.
I glance toward the front door, where Davis is letting some old guy talk his ear off. Davis is nicer to Cece on a daily basis and ten times better looking. But I guess since he didn’t offer her a dogshit beverage while hormones were blasting her head apart, it barely seems to register. I don’t think all nice guys finish last, but I’m starting to lose hope for Mall Swine.
“Ada?” Cece prods. “Did you hear me?”
I return my attention to my romantically damaged best friend. “Yup. So, Will commented on your picture? That’s pretty huge.”
“It is. I can’t wait to see him at the reunion.”
Me too, becauseif I get my way, the only seeing of Will Sharpe Cece will do is the dawning realisation he is, and always will be, a fuckstick wrapped in a too-tight polo.
“Cece?” Aggie calls through the kitchen window. “Got a sec? I need to talk to you about the chicken supplier and how bloody useless he is.”
Cece’s face falls, the teenage wonder draining away as the reality of managing Stabbies reclaims her. She left nursing because the emotional toll wore her down, but it feels like she’s jumped from one bottomless stress pit into another.
These days, she’s always on the edge of overwhelm. It’s hard to watch. Especially when I can’t do anything except sneak-purchase bar supplies and nod sympathetically.
“You’ve got this,” I tell her. “Fuck the chicken guy and his sub-quality birds.”
She lets out a long breath. “Thanks. For listening. And everything else. Coming, Aggie!”
I watch her go, then unlock my phone and absently thumb through Instagram. My inbox is a mess of unsolicited dick pics and misspelled come-ons, but as I scroll through my DMs, two account names stand right the fuck out: @JakeGravesHolland and @ThrasherThompson.
My thumb hovers between their messages. Jake is… Jake, but Thrasher Thompson is right up my shit list.
Against all logic, I click Jake’s message first:
No pressure to come over. I’m still thinking about you. You ready for that dinner? I can be a massive dick to you during, if it helps?
