Page 167 of The Home Grown
He raises an eyebrow, showing me he’s listening, but I can’t talk straight away. I stand up and make my way over to his kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and turning the tap on to let the water run cold.
“Everything alright, bud?” Johnny says.
But as I fill the glass, watching the water flood in, my mind races.
I feel sick.
This is all my fault, right? If I’d kept my mouth shut…
I turn off the tap and take a swig of water, holding it in my mouth for a second before swallowing it down. Then I do it again.
Christ, months ago … my biggest problem was getting roasted on the forum, the beacon of hope being a ‘justiceforBettsy’ hashtag. And now it’s this? The unpredictable Langer, potentially out for revenge … what’s next? ‘#justiceforLanger’?
“Bud?”
“You don’t think Langer would … do anything stupid, do you?” I ask.
“What type of stupid? Like drunken antics or…”
I fill Johnny in on the conversation with Greer.
“I guess I’m thinking more like a crime of passion … why else would he duck out this close to the end of the season? I mean, they just won the league title for crying out loud—the guy should be buzzing,” I say.
“Well yeah, but you don’t know how he feels about this Kathryn girl. He could be halfway around the world right now … they could be running away to start a life together,” Johnny says.
“Or he was happy living in the mess he’d created and he’s on his way here to break my legs…”
Johnny stands up.
“I’m sure it’s fine. You did the right thing. Whatever happens next isn’t your fault. I mean, how are you supposed to control his actions? If he’s been sleeping with his best friend’s fiancée, more fool him.”
I know Johnny’s right. But it’s not about what I did—it’s about what Langer does next.
I don’t give it a second thought when that text from Greer comes through, and I’m forced to make another phone call.
ELLIE
Greg is waitingfor me when I leave the salon on Wednesday afternoon. At first, I mistake him for an ill-dressed traffic warden, eager to hand me an unwarranted parking ticket. But as I get closer, I recognise the receding hairline—not that I’ve got anything against thinning hair on a man, but Greg wears his denial in the tune of a hairstyle.
I’ve got no idea what he wants, but I doubt it’s anything I’ll want to hear. He’s leaning against my car in such a way, it’ll be impossible to hop into the driver’s seat and speed off unnoticed.
For a second, I consider abandoning my car and taking the bus home instead. But then he spots me, lifts a hand in an awkward wave and—brilliant—I’m left with no choice but to talk to him.
“Have you got a minute?” he asks.
Instead of answering him, I make my way to the rear of the car, popping open the boot and slinging my bags inside. I linger, searching for a reason to avoid giving him even a minute, but come up with nothing.
Nothing.
Damn it all.
“Ellie?” Greg straightens up and makes his way over to me, standing on the pavement right next to the rear driver’s side.
Definitely no chance of a getaway now.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I—I wanted to give you this.”
