Page 54 of The Home Grown
“It’s like a workout for my brain,” he said. “Exercising the old muscle memory.”
I didn’t ask him to, but he insisted on demonstrating.
Before I could protest, he had dropped to the floor and got into a split-leg position he called a ‘frog-stretch’ then started humping the carpet in a way I never thought possible. Even though it’s completely ridiculous in sober afterthought, I couldn’t force myself to look away.
The whole thing was ridiculous. Or at least, it should have felt that way. But we were both laughing, merrily on our way to being completely wasted, which is also around the same time I let my guard down.
I let my guard down, and Mike wormed his way into my emotions, asking me questions and listening when I answered and you know what? It felt like I was talking to an old friend.
Oh, God. I bet I told him too much. I bet I?—
“Well, who was here then?” she asks. “Jessica? Or?—”
She pushes past me, striding into my kitchen where she continues her investigation.
That’s when I notice the takeaway containers half-poking out of the bin.
Crap.
I curse under my breath, as Kathryn clocks them, her nostrils flaring as she looks between me and the evidence of a good time.
God forbid a girl has a good time, after all.
“Eleanor—you’re supposed to be on a wedding diet,” she says, her voice rising a few levels in horror. “What the hell are you thinking?”
She moves towards the bin and points at the offending article.
“You’re not getting married for ages,” I say. “One chicken kebab is hardly going to?—”
She gasps. The gasp of someone who’s just been told her eyebrows are too bushy.
“I’m sorry, but when are you going to take this seriously?” she says. “I mean—you’ve got a lot to lose, it’s not going to be a quick win for you.”
My eyebrows shoot up as my mouth hangs open.
“Excuse—”
“Besides … if you’re going to get this magazine deal, they’ll want photos. What’s it going to look like if you’re battling the blubber during a photo shoot?”
I blink several times, trying to process how my own sister could talk to me like that when she steps forward a few paces and reaches for the letter I left on the counter last night, one that was delivered while I was at work.
I’d shown Mike, trying to get his view—weirdly taking his opinion seriously.
“What’s this?” Kathryn says.
She doesn’t wait for me to reply, she’s plucking the paper from the envelope in one firm motion, skimming over the letter before I can so much as breathe a protest.
“So, you need a website, and you need to up your social media plans? I guess that makes sense. I did wonder if applying was overly ambitious of you. How are you going to do that?”
I take a moment to process what’s going on before I stumble out a reply.
“I’m not sure. I?—”
“Well, Greg and I can’t help you,” she snaps. “We’re putting all our money into our half of the wedding costs. And Dad ispaying the other half, so I doubt he’ll have anything spare either … what are you going to do?”
“I haven’t thought about it yet,” I say, swallowing hard. “But I thought that seven grand which I put into the business would be handy now … or just some of it, maybe.”
Kathryn stares at me like I’ve asked her to donate a kidney, but she’s saved by the bell when there’s a knock on my front door.
