Page 55 of The Home Grown
“That’ll be the girls,” she says. “Can you put the kettle on?”
Should I tell her now or later that the milk in my fridge is no longer milk but more of a new life form?
I fill the kettle before setting it back on the stand to boil, then I grab a pair of trainers and my coat.
“So, hair—I’m thinking this would be a good look.” Kathryn floats into the kitchen, shoving an iPad with several wedding style updos under my nose.
Typically, wedding styles get me so excited, but right now, I couldn’t care any less.
“Yeah, that looks good,” I say.
She swipes the screen a few times before pointing out another style. Then she notices my outerwear.
“Where are you going?”
“Milk. We need milk,” I say.
“Right, well, don’t be long. We don’t have time to lose—oh, and El, make sure it’s skimmed.”
Chapter Eleven
ELLIE
A thin layerof sweat covers my whole body as I stop trembling. Am I dreaming? I’m not sure—at least, I don’t think I am, anyway. Not anymore.
My legs are tangled in my duvet, and I feel … hot, and … satisfied. Like I’ve just—oh, my God—I didn’t, did I?
I tentatively reach out to pat the stretch of bed next to me and when my fingers find nothing but the cotton fitted sheet, I exhale in relief.
I’m alone.
But that must mean…
I kick off the quilt and roll onto my back, willing myself to wake up properly. But the dream still clings to me—so vivid it plays out in front of my eyes. Mike’s face, smiling back at me as I?—
No.
Don’t think about it.
It was a dream.
Just a dream.
But my eyelids feel heavy. So very heavy. They droop closed and his face, and his hands—rough and huge—slip back into view as he grips my hips. I’m peering down at him, my eyes roaming over his skin, toned and bruised in patches. There’s a yellowy-purple mark on his right rib that I want to touch … I want to soothe.
But I can’t.
He’s just out of reach even though he’s beneath me, and the more I try, the further he seems to move away.
“Does your bruise hurt?” I say.
Not really sure why I’m asking such a dumb question, but he doesn’t answer anyway. He laughs instead. A sound so real that when I force my eyes open, I still hear it, hung in the air like it’s last night all over again.
But it’s not last night. It’s Sunday night and I’m alone in bed having a sex dream about Mike—except there’s no way I should be having a sex dream about Mike.
But I did.
The more I try to abandon the memory, the more it sticks. Replaying, almost in slow motion: his lips on mine, his hands … that feeling in the pit of my abdomen that sort of simulates butterflies but also doesn’t. It twists, unsettles.
