Page 139 of The Home Grown
“Rochelle’s?” I clamp a hand over my mouth as I try to slow my thoughts, picking out the details to make them make sense. Blood, Rochelle, a ruined tuxedo. But I can only conclude one thing. I’m trembling, forcing my legs to keep me upright. “Did you kill Rochelle?”
Mike’s face drains of colour—turning as white as his shirt was at the start of the evening. He shakes his head.
“Oh, no, no, no. Of course, I haven’t. She turned up earlier … tried to get me to leave with her, took my phone … I was trying to get away from her and she fell—landed face down on the pavement and … I couldn’t leave her there. I couldn’t get a taxi to take her to A&E because of the blood … Vicky had to bundle her in the back of her car … I—I tried calling you. I wanted to explain, I?—”
I’m overcome with relief. Not because of Rochelle, but because of Mike. And I know there’s no way he’d lie to me. I just feel it. I just know it.
“Slow down,” I say. “Come on, slow down. Take a breath.”
“She’s going to press charges—I know she will,” he says, eyes watering with tears. “She won’t tell anyone she fell. She’ll probably come up with some crap about me pushing her or something.”
I pull him into the living room where he collapses onto the sofa and buries his head in his hands as he wails; shoulders shaking with near-silent sobs.
I’ve genuinely never seen a man cry before—which sounds odd thinking about it, but my dad never has, nor has Greg, not when I’ve been there. And I’ve never had a proper boyfriend for long enough to have his emotions on display. Not like this. Not like the tears of desperation that Mike is shedding.
I drop to my knees in front of him, rubbing my hand over his thigh, trying to offer any comfort I can.
He takes a laboured breath. “My career will be ruined. They’ll kick me off both teams and that’ll be that. No hockey. Like—what would I even do? How would I—” He sniffs deeply as his head rises, then he pauses. His breath slowing.
“You’re wearing your rings,” he whispers, looking at my left hand.
“Uh, yeah, I am.”
He nods, slow and steady, his gaze focuses on my hand.
“They’re a perfect fit,” I say.
It feels like a dumb thing to say, but he takes hold of my hand, cradles it in his, his own ring brushing against mine.
Together.
“It’s because you’ve got a perfect hand,” he says.
I can feel myself flushing, warm heat rising through me, but then I get a lung-full of bloody-sweat.
“Let me run you a bath, make you a cup of tea—then get you to bed. I think you need to rest. We can talk properly in the morning.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I really am. I didn’t mean to drag you into any of this.”
“Shh,” I soothe, giving his thigh another rub. “Let’s get you the tea.”
I stand up and make my way to the kitchen, getting as far as a doorframe when he calls my name.
“Kitch?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you put two sugars in?”
BETTSY
I can feelsomeone watching me. I’ve got my eyes closed, but I can sense it. A prickling awareness which would usually have me feeling uneasy, but this feels different somehow. Like there’s a warmth over me, almost intoxicating—thrilling, maybe.
But the events of last night trickle back into my working memory, fragmented and disjointed as they piece together like a puzzle.
An icy shiver runs down my spine as panic sets in; my eyes snap open, half expecting to see a bloody Rochelle lying next to me, but I exhale in relief when Ellie’s eyes meet mine. A chocolate-brown warmth that causes my stomach to tighten with excitement.
Déjà vu? No. I’m not hungover this time. I don’t have a headache, and from what I can tell, I definitely don’t have any boxers on.
