Page 64 of The Home Grown
Drive away, Ellie. Drive away.
But I don’t.
There’s a tightness in my chest, and as I release the handbrake to pull off again, I creep along the pavement next to a speed-walking Mike instead.
I wind the window down, my mind telling me one thing and my body doing another in the ultimate act of betrayal.
“Get in,” I say.
And he doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s like a dog returning with a ball to be thrown again, jogging around the back of my car and opening the passenger door with enthusiasm.
I’m quick to move the ‘to go’ box I got from the restaurant earlier so he can climb in.
“Oh, this is fancy,” he says, eyeing the box that’s now sitting precariously on my dashboard. “Anything decent?”
“Which way?”
He shows me which direction to take while reaching for the box so he can peer inside, a noise of disapproval rumbling from his throat.
“You had a salad to go?” he says. “A fucking salad?”
“I wasn’t feeling it,” I say.
“I’m not surprised. No one feels a salad,” he says.
“I didn’t want anything heavy.”
I don’t go into detail about my pre-wedding-that’s-not-my-wedding diet, but in all honesty, ever since Kathryn called me out, I’ve been overly conscious about it—and having dinner with her and her friends meant I had eyes on me the entire evening.
“Did you have a date with Langer?” he says in a prickly tone, keeping his eyes on the passing scenery.
“No. Besides, I told you … it’s social.”
I can’t be sure, but I’m half convinced he exhales a heavy breath. He doesn’t say anything, simply points towards the Shell garage, which comes into view as I round a corner.
I pull onto the forecourt, and he hops out, leaving the box of salad on my dashboard.
I tell myself not to look. That I don’t care. That I’m just waiting.
But I can’t pull my eyes away. I watch him right up to the point of disappearing inside, dragging my eyes to my phone, tapping at the screen like I’ve suddenly remembered something urgent because there’s no way he can catch me staring when he comes back.
My car door opens a few moments later, and he climbs inside, a waft of whatever scent he’s wearing forcing me to hold my breath.
“Got you something,” he says, dumping a pile of chocolate bars into the centre console.
“What’re thosefor?” I ask.
“It’s criminal not to buy anything for the driver when you run into a petrol station. And since I don’t know what your favourite is, I got a selection.”
My stomach rumbles in excitement, but I shift my attention away from the treats.
“And those?” I ask, eyeing a wad of scratch cards.
Mike grins.
“If I win a fiver or less, I reinvest. Here—have three on me. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
He tears three cards off and passes them over, then digs around in his wallet for a penny, dropping it into my free hand.
