Page 122 of The Home Grown
I try the knocker next. Frantically forcing it up and down, desperate to make myself heard. Not like he could have forgotten I’m out here.
But there’s nothing. No shadows through the glass, no muffled conversation. Nothing.
I idle on the doorstep for a moment before fumbling for my phone, hoping to call, text, something… but the screen stays dark, and I remember—I was meant to charge it on the drive here.
Throwing it back into my bag, I knock again. Hammering my fist this time.
Bang, bang, bang.
But still nothing.
And when I tread across the perfectly manicured lawn to peer through the window, I find the curtains drawn shut.
I feel defeated. Defeated and exhausted. But I hold out for another few minutes before backing away, retreating to the comfort of my car where I lock my doors and lean back in my seat.
What now? I guess I could wait out here. Keep tabs on her front door … because she’ll have to leave, eventually. But I’m getting hungry and after all the travelling I’ve done today, I’m keen to crawl into bed and sink into a deep sleep—after I text Mike, of course.
I dig through the centre console, looking for the cable to charge my phone, when my fingers brush across the paper of the winning scratch cards from the petrol station trip with Mike. A moment that actually feels like forever ago.
They were winners, right?
I plug the cable into my phone before picking up the cards, scanning the detail. What did Mike say? Anything under a fiver … reinvest?
With the hope of speaking to Kathryn swept away like a pile of hair clippings, I start the engine, toss the cards into my bag, and pull away from her street, heading in the direction of the big supermarket on the edge of town.
I’m in and out in less than fifteen minutes, grabbing something to make for dinner, a bottle of wine and four replacement scratchcards. Typically, I’d be keen to drive home and get into my pyjamas, but I can’t wait. I dig in my purse for a penny and read the rules, coin poised ready.
Match three to win.
Okay, that’s straightforward enough, and if I lose, then I have lost nothing. But if I win … maybe I won’t need to ask Kathryn for anything back. Maybe I can go there tomorrow on the premise of gloating instead.
I chuckle to myself. The realisation that I have more faith in a bit of card than I do my own sister.
I get started, rubbing away the surface as I whisper a silent prayer to whatever God is listening.
Card one is a loser.
Card two is a loser.
Card three is a winner. Two whole pounds.
But card four is even better.
“Huh,” I say to myself, turning the card over in my hand. That can’t be right, can it?
I grab my phone, wait for it to power on and pull up the camera app, snapping a picture of the card before sending it on to Mike, tapping out a caption.
Would you reinvest this? Or take it as the ultimate win?
I flick through several messages from clients as I wait for him to reply, but I’m halted mid-read when my phone rings in my hand. Mike’s name flashing up on the screen.
A video call.
My nerves kick up a notch, though I’m not sure why. I saw him this morning and—God. I realise I was just as nervous then too.
I take a breath and hitaccept,beaming back at Mike as his face fills the screen.
“Sweetheart,” he says, a buzz in his voice like he’s been drinking. “Remember when I told you a fiver is the limit? That was for good reason. I once bought fifty scratch cards with my fifty quid winnings, and I won a grand total of thirty quid. Which naturally, I reinvested and won even less so … bottom line: take the fifty.”
