The corner booth is loud, chaotic, warm with fries and chatter. Patrick’s boxed in by his mates: Gibsie’s swinging his legs under the table, Johnny and Hughie are arguing about whether or not that was Shannon Lynch’s elbow in Joey’s ribs. Laughter spills over the table.
But Patrick—he’s been quiet all night.
Because she’s here.
His best friend.
The posh girl with perfect posture and summer freckles, the one who used to sneak him into her garden through the back gate in primary school, the one who still texts him when her parents fight, or when she gets too quiet at night.
She’s sitting across from him. But not alone.
Damien Cleary has his arm slung around her shoulders like a scarf, whispering something smug in her ear. Patrick watches her laugh. Watches her lean into him, like it’s easy.
Like Patrick’s just someone across a table.
She reaches into her pocket. Pulls out her earbuds — the same beat-up ones she used to wear when she sat next to Patrick on the bus, only one in, always the left one, the right one saved for him.
Patrick’s stomach twists.
She puts the left earbud in Damien’s ear.
The right one in hers.
And taps play on her phone.
Patrick hears it, even through the mess of noise: the soft, echoing beginning of Some Protector by Role Model. I’ll be your protector…
He blinks. Slowly.
She doesn’t even glance at him.
Patrick’s chair scrapes back.
“Are you serious?” he says, not loud—but the kind of quiet that hurts.
She looks up, startled. “What?”
“That song.” His voice cracks. “You’re playing that song. For him.”
Damien frowns. “What’s his problem?”
Patrick points at the earbuds. “That’s our song.”
The table stills.
No one’s laughing anymore.
“That was our song.”
“Patrick—” she starts, but he cuts her off, voice rising.
“No. You don’t get to play that for someone else like it doesn’t mean anything. You don’t get to act like we were just best friends when we both know we weren’t.”
She blinks, mouth trembling.
Patrick’s voice drops, rough.
“We were never truly platonic. You knew it. You just didn’t want to choose me.”
Damien scoffs. “Maybe because she didn’t. Get over it, mate.”
Patrick doesn’t even look at him.
He’s staring at her.
“Did it ever mean anything to you?” he asks quietly. “Or was I just convenient? Until someone you could actually have came along?”