Page 38 of The Home Grown
I stare at the mass of keyrings in my palm.
“Okay, are you a jailor, or…?”
“Shush.”
“It’s like … ninety-five per cent keyring,” I say, studying the bundle.
“If you’re going to make fun?—”
“I’m not, I’m not,” I say. “Where are you parked?”
I tap the unlock button and a car across the street lights up. I check that the road is clear before crossing, Ellie following a few paces behind me, then I open the boot and get to work on jacking up the car.
Sometimes, I really wish I was the type of person who could keep his mouth shut and revel in the silence of a moment, but I can’t. It feels like there’s a giant stick poking me in the side, pushing me to talk … to say something.
“So, got any exciting weekend plans?” I say, tilting my head up to where she’s standing on the pavement.
She purses her lips before sighing.
“You don’t need to make small talk,” she says.
“Okay,” I say, standing up. “How about medium talk instead?”
She furrows her brow.
“Look, Kitch—” I meet her eyes and there’s something about the way she’s looking at me. “I tried calling you,” I say. “After my texts went un-answered. I called you and you told me not to call your number again. So, for the record, I tried.”
There’s a flicker of shock on her face.
“You definitely did not call. And I did not tell younotto call again,” she says, indignation in her voice.
“Well, fuck knows what happened there then,” I say.
I crouch down next to the passenger side wheel, waiting for her to respond, hoping she says something to make it make sense, but she doesn’t.
I’m met with a wall of silence.
“And I didn’t ghost you,” I say.
I catch a look at her, studying her reaction, but she’s staring at me. Wide eyes.
And because she still doesn’t speak, I feel obligated to keep talking like the idiot I am.
“I really liked you … you know, and I guess the joke is on me here, because I thought you liked me back. And that never happens so?—”
“What do you mean by that?” she says.
I stand up and reach for the lug wrench.
“All I’m saying is, when you look like I do, you see a crush as just that—a crush. Unobtainable and someone you’ll eventually get over. But imagine how buzzed I was when you said yes to wanting to spend the day with me. I thought, if you got to know me, as a person, you may overlook my exterior and?—”
“Don’t you dare,” she says, pulling her brows together. “You don’t get to tell me how I felt about you—how do you know how I felt about you?”
“Well, you didn’t contact me, either.”
“I didn’t have my phone, remember? It was in Jessica’s bag, and you were the one who took my number. You are the one who stood there and promised you’d text me.”
I remember that conversation vividly. And she’s right—I promised.
