Page 125 of The Home Grown
“Outside. Now,” he says, pointing towards the patio doors.
My pulse picks up as I get to my feet, wondering if the disappointment will come from Dad instead. I force myself to move forward. Left foot, right foot, a steady movement right out into the garden, clutching my brew like it’s going to save me.
Dad pulls up a weathered patio chair and points at it, “Sit,” then grabs one for him, sinking down onto it before hissing, “talk.”
“It’s actually a funny story,” I say, choosing to add a bit of humour to the mix, but his face remains solemn—clearly deciding this isn’t as funny as he first thought.
See, when I told Mam, I omitted the part about Ellie and I potentially being married for real. I also missed out on the mention of who was playing along, but for some reason, I choose to tell Dad the entire story. Starting at the very beginning.
I tell him about the eighteen-year-old me, and the naivety it came with, then I tell him about the fact that I tried to get in touch with her once I got home—then I skip forward to her turning up at my apartment and the events that followed quickly after.
He sucks in a breath. “Christ’s sake, Mike.”
“I know,” I say. “I didn’t plan for it to happen, obviously.”
Then he asks me the question I’ve been dreading.
“Who is she?”
I pick at my cuticles. My dad’s not dumb. He’ll know that there’s no way a girl like Ellie would actively choose to be with a guy like me. Rough around the edges, covered in bruises and scars and missing several teeth.
Maybe that’s why Vicky acted the way she did.
I gear myself to answer. Gathering all the courage I have. “It’s?—”
But something catches my eye, and I let my attention slip to the kitchen window, where I notice movement inside. Two people. One being my mother and the other, taller, hair a warm chestnut. The reflection of the garden blurs against the glass, making it hard to see—and it doesn’t help that my dad is glaring at me, waiting for a reply.
He prompts me again. “So, who?”
“Ellie?” I gasp.
For a second, I think it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but nope. There she is, standing in the kitchen with my mother.
Ah, fuck. My stomach lurches.My heart pounds—like I’m a single defenceman on an odd-man rush.
Dad follows my eyes, and he says something—except I don’t hear him because there’s a pull in my chest at the exact moment I realise Ellie is crying.
I set the mug on the floor before standing, and stride over to the door, pulling it open and stepping inside, where I catch the end of her sentence.
“…I’m so sorry, Mrs Betts. I didn’t mean to let you down or anything, but hopefully we can line up home appointments from now on.”
Ellie looks at me, her eyes widening.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Can you give us some privacy, please, Michael?” Mam says.
Ellie sniffs loudly before wiping a plump tear from her cheek.
“Kitch?”
“It’s nothing,” she says.
I don’t even think about what I’m doing until I’m doing it—I step towards her and pull her into my arms.
“What’s going on?” I ask, keeping my voice low and level.
“I was about to ask the same question,” Mam says. “What—Michael you can’t?—”
