“For fuck’s sake, we’ve been friends since kindergarten!” she says.

“Yes, but you’re not at kindergarten any more.”

The two old men present a united front, twenty years of friendship and bruises on their faces. Twenty years of fucking stupidity, Jo thinks. The arch of Patrick’s eyebrow is bleeding a little. Like kids outside high school. Kids with the strength of men, playing at being men.

“You’re in a muddle, you don’t understand anything.”

“You think you’re more clever? I’m your father and I decide. I’m taking you back home.”

Patrick tries to soften the order. “Come on, Jo, don’t sulk, get into the pick-up, your father’s right.”

She gives him a look black with rage. She thinks about Saïd, who ran away and left her alone with these two fucking morons. She climbs into the pick-up and feels her phone vibrate. It’s a text from Garance to arrange the date for the party. Next Saturday. In six days’ time, she’s going to a party with Garance and her friends. A cheerful uneasiness, a euphoria she hides as best she can, soothes her rage at being made to do something by her father right now.

Manuel gets in next to her. “Where’s your sister?”

“No idea.”

Arms crossed, Patrick stands next to the door. The blood has turned black at the corner of his eyebrow.

The two men still challenge each other with their eyes, then Manuel sighs. “I’ll explain, Patrick. I’ll explain tomorrow. We’re not going to let a kid stir up shit between us.”

Patrick’s features relax at this renewed promise. Thick as thieves. For life, etc. He slaps the door with the palm of his hand the way you pat an animal. When the pick-up starts, he massages the back of his neck and his jaw, worried – practically certain – that his friend partly pulled his punches. That makes him feel uncomfortable. He’d rather his friend had punched him for real.

Friends for Life

Friends for Life