Page 67 of The Home Grown
He’s not kidding.
He’s actually not kidding.
“C’mon, Kitch. All you’ve got to do is come to a few social events, show your face around the scene a little, hang off my arm … that sort of stuff. Once I’m embedded into the team, we can ‘split’.” He air-quotes with his fingers.
“H-hang off your arm?” I say.
“You know, be seen with me, so people think it’s legit.”
I’m waiting for him to smirk, laugh, tell me he’s kidding after all, and we can conclude he’s an excellent liar.
But he doesn’t. He’s serious.
On what planet does he think this is a good idea?
“On what planet do you think this is a good idea?” I say.
“It makes sense, don’t you think? I mean, we’re probably married for real and I…”
I gape at him and he stops talking. Closing his mouth and tightening his jaw.
“Is this all a joke to you?” I say. “Is this fucked up scenario one big joke? This is my life, Mike. My. Life.”
I feel humiliated. The thought of this sham marriage was bad enough, but him wanting to use it for his own gain? How would that make me look if anyone was to find out? Because there’s no way I could actively be ‘hanging off his arm’ and have no one ask questions. Kathryn would go crazy for one.
“No, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. Of course it’s not, it’s just?—”
“No,” I say bluntly.
“No? Is that a no to my proposal or no to it making sense?” he says.
“No. It’s a no. Full stop. A no. Two nos.”
“Shit,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t ideal.”
My eyebrows shoot upward. There’s no way he thought I was going to agree, was there?
“I’ve already sort of mentioned you to Coach,” he says.
I purse my lips as I close my eyes, willing myself to breathe. Willing myself to stay calm.
“You’ve already ‘sort of’ mentioned me to your Coach?” I say, trying to make it make sense.
“I—” He bites his lip, and that scar leading down to this chin distorts; I can’t help staring at it. “All this stuff online started getting some of the leadership team at my club and Team GB talking. The general manager of my club sort of hinted at me to figure it out, demonstrate that I’m a serious guy … that sort of thing, and then—” He throws his head back on the headrest, covering his face with his hands, “—it just sort of happened, I guess. The Team GB Coach was talking about being committed and stuff and I sort of blurted out something about my wife and us being childhood sweethearts … and he looked relieved.”
“He looked relieved?” I say, letting my mouth hang open.
“He thought I was one of the partying types—and I think it’s given him a good reason to pick me tomorrow. I think I’m in with a chance here, Kitch.”
“But you are the partying type. And I’ve got a half empty bottle of Macallen to prove it,” I counter.
“Which I enjoyed with my wife,” he deadpans.
My stoney-faced glare bores into him. Then I see the sadness slip over his face.
“You’re going to have to think of a way out of this, Mike. Because there’s no way in hell this is happening.”
“What’s the big deal? All you need to do is …”
