Page 171 of The Home Grown
Ellie
Just call me when you can, please.
This is it. Our game of happy families is over. Done.Finito.
It’s always the case, right? If something’s too good to be true, then it probably is. And this type of stuff always happens to me.
A dull, heavy ache fills my chest and as my thoughts spiral, the conversation around me turns to travel, and the plans for the evening before the finals kick off.
Someone mentions visiting a health club. Hot tub, sauna, full on tranquil environment. Someone else mentions a few hands of poker. Typically, I’d be suggesting both, but I can’t think of either of those things right now; there’s no way I can drag my fate out any longer.
I need to call her.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” I say to the room, prying myself away from Johnny’s sofa.
Danny says something in reply, but I don’t register it. Instead, I hurry towards the front door of Johnny’s apartment, ducking out into the hallway.
I take a breath, then press my phone to my ear, the dial tone pulsing like a countdown, mocking me.
“Hello?”
“Hey, is, uh … everything okay, Kitch?” I say.
My voice comes out shaky—an octave too high, too uncertain.
I grip my phone tighter, pacing the narrow stretch of carpet outside Johnny’s place, waiting for her to answer. Praying she lets me down gently.
“Is there anything you want to tell me, Mike?”
Ah, shit.
My heart stutters. Sheknowssomething.
I freeze, suddenly unsure which secret she’s found. The certificate? The visit to Greg? Both?
Unless she’s testing me.
I feel that familiar burn of panic in my chest, and without thinking, I fall into old habits.
Default to joker. Default to safe. If I pretend everything’s fine, maybe my world won’t come crashing down.
“Is there anythingyouwant to tellme?” I aim for light and playful, buying myself time.
She sighs, then a heavy silence sits on the line.
“Actually … yeah. There is,” she says.
My mouth drops open as I try to process her words.
Wait … what?
“It’s been on my mind for a while and I’ve sort of been hoping that it’ll go away, but you keep mentioning it and?—”
“Kitch, what’s going on?” I ask, resuming my pacing.
“You know the whole‘hashtag justice for Bettsy’thing?” She pauses. “Well, it was me. I started it.”
I stop dead. Halting mid-step, my phone pressed against my ear like I’m frozen in time.
