Page 169 of The Home Grown
“That’s beside the point,” I say.
But when he doesn’t look at me, I understand. And honestly, I’m wondering how I overlooked it for so long.
“So that’s where my money went? Funding an affair? Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Glad to know Kathryn?—”
She wasn’t out on appointments or checking in on clients too sick to come in or looking at venues. She was playing house with Rick—with my seven grand burning a hole in her pocket.
And poor Greg is financing the aftermath.
“Please, Ellie, stop,” Greg says, cutting me off. “Cash the cheque and I’ll try to get the rest to you … after the wedding.”
“After the wedding?” I say, my voice several notches louder than it was a second ago.
“El—”
“You’re still marrying her afterthat?After how she treated you?”
Greg looks crestfallen, like his world’s already ended and all he has left are the fragments to cling to.
“I love her, Ellie,” he says, his voice grave.
“But you don’t love yourself?” I ask.
Greg looks at me, his eyes meeting mine for a second before he looks away.
“I’m not perfect, Ellie. Far from, really. We all make mistakes, and I forgive Kathryn.”
“Well, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought,” I say.
Greg doesn’t respond to that, but he looks at me again. Holding my gaze for longer than necessary.
“I’m sorry, by the way,” he says, after an extended period of silence—only the passing traffic to break the quiet.
I blink, unsure whether to scoff or brace for more bullshit.
“For?”
“Lying to you about the certificate.”
“What?” I say.
“Best speak to Bettsy,” he says. “Anyway, I wish you and him all the happiness in the world. I’d be grateful if you could return the favour.”
I want to ask him what he means. I want to demand answers … but before I can even open my mouth to reply, he turns and hurries along the pavement. Disappearing around the corner.
And it’s goodbye, Greg.
Chapter Thirty-Five
BETTSY
T-minus three days.That’s all we’ve got until the playoff finals.
Everyone’s still pretty chill—probably because the reality hasn’t sunk in yet—but Johnny’s already in mother hen mode. He’s flapping around his apartment, clucking over us like we’re chicks in a coop, making sure we’re fed, watered, and mentally ready for war.
We’re all sitting in his living room, crammed in tightly as we watch a replay of last week’s quarter final, trying to understand our mistakes, our weaknesses and, most importantly, how we can tighten our game.
“See this here,” Prez says, pointing to the slot on Johnny’s flatscreen. “This is where we need to speed up our backcheck.”
