Page 100 of The Home Grown
God,I hope he answers.
With a shaky hand, I press the buzzer for Mike’s apartment, trying to steady my breathing.
Please pick up. Please pick up.
“Yeah?” The line crackles to life as a voice cuts through the speaker, causing my heart to bounce in my chest.
It’s him. Thank God, it’s him.
“It’s me,” I say, swallowing down a fresh wave of tears. “Kitch.”
I stare at the intercom, waiting for him to say something, but there’s a staticbuzzas the lobby door unlatches seconds before the connection drops.
The lobby is empty, all bar a plastic-looking plant next to the lift. I edge closer, hiking my bag higher on my shoulder, and jab the call button several times.
Seventh floor.
Sixth floor.
Fifth floor.
Fourth floor.
A door swings open behind me and I spin to see Mike, jogging from the stairwell, trainers unlaced, a cap pulled low over his eyes.
“Oh, my God,” he says. “Are you okay? Did she—” He rushes towards me as the lift pings to a stop behind me. “You’re alright, yeah?”
And that’s all it takes—someone asking howIam for me to burst into tears. Full-on, heaving sobs, like I’ve been holding them in for years. Big, bulbous tears streak down my cheeks, hot and relentless.
My shoulder lightens as Mike lifts the strap of my bag away. Then, in one smooth motion, he scoops me up like I weigh nothing. His fresh, woody scent fills my nose, momentarily dulling the ache of betrayal inside me.
“I’m sorry, Mike. I’m sorry I missed your game,” I say, blinking away the tears. “I got to the rink and there was no one there and?—”
“The rink?” he says. “Your text said you might not make it and?—”
“I had the webcast and my phone died and when I got off the train I just got a cab to the rink and the driver was asking me all these questions and then I missed?—”
I gasp. Waiting for the air to hit my lungs.
“You’re okay, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft and buttery as he holds me tighter.
Sweetheart.
“But I missed your game,” I say into his chest. “I tried to get there in time for the end but I missed it … and I asked someone and they said you?—”
But I can’t bring myself to say it.Lost.
“Ah, don’t worry about it. I play lots of games,” he says. “Honestly, I was really worried about you. I mean, Kathryn?—”
I pull away sharply and peer up at him.
“Oh, my God—it was my fault, wasn’t it? I knocked your concentration. I’m the reason you?—”
He plants a kiss on my lips, stopping the words in my throat. “It wasn’t your fault. I mean, if I’m going to point fingers it was our third line D but … it’s a team game. We couldn’t pull it back. Shit happens.”
He shrugs, like it was just a casual friendly that they’ll play again next week, but I see it. The flicker of disappointment behind his half-smile.
“But—”
