Page 36 of The Home Grown
“Oh, hey honey,” he says, in a fake North American accent.
“Five minutes,” I hiss into my phone. “It starts now.”
“Aren’t you going to let me in? It’s fucking freezing out here.”
I’m pissed at him, but I’m not completely heartless, so I unlock the door and gesture for him to duck under the shutter.
“Do you live in your salon?” he asks before cutting the call and slipping his phone away.
He steps inside cautiously, closing the door behind him.
“No. By the way, you’re eating into your five minutes.”
He ignores me, opting to start a game of question time instead.
“So, what’re you doing here this late, then? It’s not that warm, Kitch. You’re going to freeze in here.”
“What does it matter to you?” I ask.
Mike frowns. “Give me a break, would you?”
Honestly, his expression has me feeling sorry for him for at least a second, then I see the shiner on his cheek and remember that he’s a big burly hockey player who can take it.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve had a terrible day and then I get woken up for a five-minute conversation I don’t really want to have—I guess I’m feeling a little tetchy about it.”
“Well,it’s hardly the middle of the night, but the rest is fair, I guess.” He sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing at his shoes briefly before looking me in the eye. “I came to apologise. And set the record straight, I guess. You left before I could explain and I’ve been thinking about it all week, trying to figure out what’s real and what isn’t and I guess I concluded I have no idea. I’ve seen several videos online and—I don’t know. I. Don’t. Know, Kitch.
“But what I do know, is I’d never lure you into doing something like that for the fun of it. I mean—why would I, huh? Why would I marry then ditch you? I know I don’t always think things through, but I’m not that much of an ass.”
I stare at him. Trying to take it all in.
My head is fuzzy, probably from the wine, but I guess I can see his logic: whywouldhe do that? What would he gain from it?
Unease works its way through my bones. Because if he didn’t know. And I didn’t know. Then … neither of us knew. And if neither of us knew, then both of us are in this as equals. Neither of us in this situation as a result of a conscious decision, which makes me feel a whole load worse because I have no one to blame.
No one except myself.
I swallow, trying to work out if the feeling in my chest is heartbreak or disappointment, but at least the five minutes is now up.
“Well, thanks for letting me know. Please, can you close the door on your way out?” I turn on my heel and head in the direction of the back room, but he calls my name and, as much as I want to ignore him, I don’t. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I’m glad I’m facing away from him because tears I didn’t realise I had left come, catching in my eyes and filling my vision with blurry wetness.
“You don’t—” I choke out, swallowing hard, but he cuts over me.
“No, I do. I am sorry. If I hadn’t invited you to spend the day with me, this wouldn’t have happened. It’s all my fault. And if you’re anything like either of my sisters, you’ve had this idea of what your wedding was going to be like since you were … I don’t know, a kid or something.”
There’s a shuffle of movement before he speaks again.
“Images of how you’d be proposed to … and what your ring would look like… and I took that away from you. I didn’t even give you a proper kiss.”
He exhales before he continues.
“I know most guys don’t care about that sort of stuff, but I’ve seen it firsthand that women care. Most women, anyway. So, forgive me if I’ve generalised but … anyway, I am really fucking sorry, and whatever you need to make it right, I’ll do it. You’ve got my number now, so … yeah.”
Then the yale-lock on the shop door clicks shut as he leaves.
