Page 127 of The Home Grown
I bite my lip. “I’m sorry, Mike.”
“Yeah, well … any news on Kathryn? Has she sent you a cheque yet?”
“No, but she has read my messages. I’m not sure if that’s worse. And I spoke to my mother today, and she said she hasn’t heard from Kathryn either, so ‘try not to worry’.” I use my fingers for air-quotes, but Mike’s not looking. He’s gazing up at the ceiling, apparently deep in thought.
“Do you know how much you’ll need?” he says, tentatively looking in my direction. “For the website and socials?”
“Not yet.”
He nods, but he still doesn’t look at me.
“If you need money … I can help, I mean, if you want, I don’t want you to think I’m thinking you can’t manage or?—”
“What’s going on?” I say, pacing to the sofa.
I don’t sit next to him, instead I get to my knees and settle myself in between his legs, prodding him in the chest.
He meets my gaze, and his breath catches for a second before he says, “oh, fucking hell.”
“What?”
“You’re sitting there and?—”
I scramble to my feet. Though the idea of kneeling between his legs has a negative effect on my ability to stand up straight.
“I can’t commit to doing that while I’ve got a fresh face of make-up. Not when I don’t have time to fix it.”
Mike tilts his head to look at me again. “My dirty thoughts are killing me. You’re killing me.”
“They’ll be time for that later,” I say. “Once you tell me what’s wrong.”
He runs his hands over his face, groans, then stands up.
Is he shaking? Oh my God, I know guys enjoy a blowjob, but?—
He dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out a small black velvet box. The sort of box rings come in.
I gasp—I can’t help myself. I gasp, looking between the box and Mike, who looks like he’s about to pass out.
“Kitch—” he says. “I know you said … but … fuck.” His head dips to his hands before he looks at me again. “I figured if we show up and we’re not looking … you know, fully dressed, then people may get suspicious.”
I stare at his hands, visibly shaking under my watch, as he pries open the box. My heart picks up speed, already heightened after the tuxedo entry, now beating franticly in my chest.
“What—”
“I went to a jeweller today, and it’s weird because I don’t have a fucking clue about rings or anything, but when I saw these, I just … thought of you.” He turns the box around to face me. “It’s sort of like one of those wedding rings that fits around the engagement ring and, ugh … I hope you like it enough to wear, I mean?—”
My eyes brim with tears. In the box sits an Asscher-cut diamond. And it’s … breathtaking.
“It’s on a platinum band and the clarity’s something like ‘VS1’ or something—I’m not sure what that means, but apparently, it’s nearly perfect. Like, you’d need a loupe to spot any flaws … one of those magnifying glasses jewellers use.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Do you like it?”
I’m trying to think ofanything to say that will convey how I feel about it—because this is the most beautiful set of rings I’ve ever seen.
“I—I—” I swallow. “I love them, Mike. But I can’t accept them.”
