Page 12 of The Home Grown
I reach for my laptop and stare at the lid for longer than necessary before I pry it open, trying to think of any reason not to do this. But I can’t. This is the only way.
I wait for the login screen, tapping my fingers against the table, then I pull up a fresh browser, tapping his name into the search engine with shaky hands.
My search returns almost instantly. His hockey profile. A bunch of news articles. That forum post … then I find what I’m looking for.
His social media.
Page after page of‘Michael Betts’but there’s only one that’s actually his and I spot him straight away. A profile pictureof him wearing a pair of novelty sunglasses. His grin shining through the screen and a pang of nausea ripples through me.
Oh, God. There’s no way this is a good idea—this is a complete nightmare.
But before I can talk myself out of it, I slide right into the DMs of Mike Betts.
He still hasn’t readit by the next morning.
After the worst night of sleep I’ve ever had, there’s no way I can go on like this—half-guessing, overthinking, waiting.
I need answers, and I need him to check his inbox.
By ten o’clock, I’ve done a full set of nails and a spray tan, and when I check again … there’s still no reply. My message just sits there, unread.
I tell myself if there’s nothing by eleven o’clock, then I’ve got no choice but to seek expert help from Greg, Kathryn’s fiancé.
Another full set of nails later, I’m nipping into the stockroom under the guise of checking the quantity of waxing strips.
Once I’m sure that Kathryn is busy with a client, I pull out my phone and scroll to our sparse message thread—odd comments about Kathryn, a birthday gift for Dad.
Which is probably why he texts back straight away when I ask him if I can come and see him at lunch.
Greg
Everything okay?
Ellie
No, not really. But if you can spare me some time, I’ll explain.
Pls don’t tell Kathryn.
Greg
I can spare 20 minutes at 13:15.
Bring coffee.
And an apple danish.
Don’t tell Kathryn, either.
A danish. Ironic and painfully so.
I slip my phone away and check the wax strip stock, in case Kathryn asks, then head back into the salon and bide my time. Watching the clock. Waiting…
As soon as Kathryn’s back from her break, I duck out onto the street and head straight for the bakery.
Two coffees and one pastry later, I check that the pavement is clear and slip into Greg’s legal firm two doors down.
“Come in and take a seat,” he says, pointing towards a plush tub chair in the middle of his office.
