Page 35 of The Home Grown
I rub my eyes, trying to process the words that float into my ear.
“Yeah, this is she,” I say.
“Can we talk?” he says.
Talk? What the?—
“Sorry, who is this?”
“Are you okay?” he says.
“Yeah, fine, but—” Then there’s a laugh. A laugh I recognise almost straight away; it hits me, rousing me from the hazy veil that settled. “Mike?”
“Yeah. Like I said—it’s Bettsy. Sorry to call you out of the blue, but I was hoping we could talk.”
I sit up, swivelling my body so I can put my feet on the floor, trying to ground myself.
I take a minute to work out where I am: the backroom of the salon, on the sofa with my coat as a blanket.
“Talk? I’m sorry, what?” I say.
“I’ve been thinking—the way we left things last time, I mean?—”
“Look, I’ve had the literal day from hell—I really don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say.
“Please? Just ten minutes—I mean, I’m back home. I had a game here tonight, so I figured it’d be a good time to talk. I’m at your salon right now so I can come and meet you somewhere,” he says.
I swear to God my heart stops for a beat, then I hesitate for a moment, because the last thing I need is Mike turning up here and seeing the absolute state that is my life. Despite not wanting to care what he of all people thinks, I do. And it sucks.
“How do you know—right, your mam. Well, can’t sorry. I’m busy,” I say.
“Five minutes, then? You owe me that.”
“I owe you nothing,” I snap, letting the pitch of my voice elevate. “If anyone owes anyone anything … it’s you. You’re a dick and I have nothing more to say to you.”
There’s a pause, then Mike’s voice, now full of sarcasm, comes down the line again. “Aww—look at us, bickering like an ol?—”
“Stop it, Mike.”
“So, give me five minutes,” he says. “Where shall I meet you?”
“You can say what you’ve got to say over the phone,” I say.
Another pause.
“Do you know spoken communication allows for immediate clarification of misunderstandings? Trust me, this is a face-to-face thing,sweetheart.”
I growl. “You’re full of crap.”
“You used to love it,” he says. “Always said how funny I was.”
He’s talking like we spent twelve years together, not twelve hours. But, considering I’m running out of ways to say no and for him to actually hear me, I exhale sharply, and wriggle out from under my coat.
I make my way to the front area of the salon, where I spot Mike through the gaps in the shutter, standing on the pavement outside illumined by the streetlamps.
He’s wearing a suit. A freaking suit. And he has the audacity to pull it off, too. That nauseating feeling of disgust creeps in as I will myself to tap the glass.
He turns around, phone still pressed to his ear.
