Page 161 of The Home Grown
“Don’t you think ‘touching up’ is a weird concept? Because you can’t actually touch the puck, right? I mean, not unless it’s flying through the air and you catch it to throw it back down…”
… nothing.
“But what I find most interesting is that you get sent to the box for like an adult time-out and …” He keeps his focus forward—still grasping the wheel tightly… still ignoring me. This is very muchnotMike. Something is wrong and I need to know what it is so I can help.
“Mike? Are you listening to me?” I say.
“Yeah, of course.”
But he still refuses to look at me.
“Right, I’m done,” I say. “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on? You’ve never been this quiet before—I usually can’t get a word in edgeways.”
He exhales. “Do you want a brew or anything? There are services coming up.”
“No, I don’t want a brew. I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
He flicks down the indicator switch with his ring finger. A single swipe down before his hand reverts to ‘ten’. Then he checks his mirror, a brief glance in my direction, but only because he has to.
He pulls off the motorway, meandering on the single-track road to the parking area where he finds a spot at the farthest point from the entrance, cutting the engine.
“Kitch,” he says, rubbing his hands over his face. “I?—”
“Is everything okay?” I ask. This feels like a moment relived. Except that time we were on the forecourt of a petrol station, and I was in the driving seat. “You’re not going to ask me to go along with another wild idea of yours, are you?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“Then—”
“If you knew something about someone doing something orsomeonethey shouldn’t be doing … would you tell someone about the something?”
Mike shifts in his seat.
“If I knew something about someone doing something or someone they shouldn’t be doing…” I repeat. “Do you know something about someone, Mike?”
He groans. It’s the type of frustrated, deflated groan that makes me want to comfort him.
I reach out for his hand, clasping it in my own.
“Yeah,” he says, looking down at our intertwined fingers. “Yeah, I do … and—I…” He looks at me. The first time in what feels like forever. There’s a fear in his eyes—like what he’s about to tell me is going to change things and he’s not sure how I’ll react.
“Mike?”
“I think you know by now I—uh, I love you, right? Like I really love you. And I know we’ve not been togethertogetherfor long, but I feel it in here…” He uses his free hand to rub his chest, right where the branding of his team logo sits on his hoodie. “…like I feel it and…”
“I know,” I say. I unclip my seatbelt and lean over the centre console to wrap my arms around him. “I love you, too.”
“You do?” he says.
“Of course, I do. I mean…”I break off, leaning back to look at him because there’s more to this; his expression is still just as stoney … still just as tense.
“Sweetheart … I don’t want to hurt you or anything,” he says. “And I know things aren’t good with you and Kathryn at the moment, but if you make up and then?—”
“Mike? What’s going on?”
“Your sister’s been cheating on Greg,” he says. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know how to tell you and it’s been fucking eating away at me and?—”
“What?” I say. “How—I, what?”
