Page 131 of The Home Grown
I flick my gaze towards the bottom end of the table where Langer and his league team buddies chat and joke, completely oblivious to the crippling heartache happening at this end of the table. Selfishly, I’m grateful Danny’s here without a plus one—it makes me look a little less pathetic.
“Poor woman probably wanted a break,” Danny says.
“A break from what?”
“All the shit you talk,” he grins.
“Har-har,” I say, taking a swig of beer from a fresh bottle.
It’s my third of the evening, the two before this being short-lived, a failed attempt to push down the anxiety.
“But seriously—is everything okay?” Danny says.
He keeps his voice quiet, and I force a nod, putting my attention on the paper label stuck to the bottle, picking at the edge of the logo adhered to the glass.
What if this is it? What if thesomethingshe needed to do involves an ex she’s never mentioned? Maybe she realised…
“Mate?”
I snap out of my spiral. Angling my head towards Danny as I force a smile.
“Uh, yeah, all good,” I say.
He doesn’t buy it. I know he doesn’t.
I wait until he’s pulled into another conversation before sneaking a peek at my phone, curious to see if I’ve missed a call.
There’s nothing.
She should be here by now, but I’ve not received so much as a text from her. Nothing. Radio silence.
“Maybe I should check in on her? Call her, perhaps?” I say, nudging Danny in the arm.
“What? Oh … well, it’s your funeral. Women don’t like it when you nag them,” Danny says. “And they don’t like being told that they’re taking too long to get ready—learn from my mistakes.”
I push my seat back and stand anyway, moving towards the far end of the bar area, avoiding Greer and Frenchy.
Once I’m out of earshot, I pull up her number and hit dial.
Voicemail.
It doesn’t even ring.
And automatically, I try again.
Voicemail.
I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose as I slip my phone away and head back to my seat, putting all my effort into being passive.
Luckily, I’ve done this enough times to pull it off. Though, this time, it feels less like a rejection and more like a punch in the stomach.
“All good?” Danny says.
“Oh, actually…” I say, pulling an excuse out of my ass. “She’s got a headache. I think it’s the weather,” I say. “Barometric pressure, temperature, humidity … you know.”
Danny blinks before taking a sip of his own drink. “Right.”
Lucky for me, that’s when Greer and Frenchy return to their seats, setting down a tray of drinks. Bottles of beer, shot glasses, and a magnum of champagne. It’s enough to draw Danny.
