Page 42 of The Home Grown
“The bathroom’s upstairs on the right,” I say.
But Mike doesn’t move. He stands glued to the spot, looking around like he’s surveying the place to give me a quote for decorating or something.
“Can’t your boyfriend help you?” he asks, his tone teasing, but a knot forms in my chest. “You know, get it to how you want it?”
“I don’t have a—I told you, it’s early days.”
I move through into the kitchen, flicking the light on before dropping my bag and coat onto the table in the corner. Then I turn to assess the kitchen—one I fell in love with when I viewed the house that quickly showed its faults when I moved in.
The Belfast-style sink was a selling point when I viewed the place, but now it reminds me of a dream I can’t ever see coming true. And there’s an enormous crack on the edge that definitely wasn’t there when I viewed the house.
“I love the sink,” Mike says, moving into the room. “The worktops would look so good in like … a rustic oak or something.” He runs his hand along the surface.
“Well, if you want to make me an offer, this place is yours,” I say.
He grins.
“Are you forgetting something, sweetheart? We’re married. It’s already half mine.”
Sweetheart? Typically patronising from anyone else, but he pulls it off, causing an involuntary shiver to run down my spine.
“We don’t know that for sure yet…” I say, but I can tell he’s not listening.
“Honestly, this is a nice place. And getting things in a good shape takes time. One of my buddies on the team is renovating at the moment and—” Mike cuts himself off, then pulls at the collar of his shirt.
“Well, yeah, but I have little spare cash at the moment. And with this marriage stuff … I’m not sure how much that’s going to set me back.”
“What does it matter?” Mike says, leaning against the kitchen counter, clearly forgetting about his visit to the bathroom again. “I mean, eight years and we didn’t know, so what does it actually matter if we don’t get it done for another few years?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No. It makes perfect sense,” he says, moving towards the table.
“It does not. What if I meet the love of my life and he plans an extravagant proposal, and I have to stop him mid-taking a knee to drop the bomb that I’m already married, and I need to get divorced first?”
Mike rubs his beard. “Okay, well, yeah, I guess that could be a tad awkward. Maybe just tell anyone you’re dating that you’re married when it kicks off—hey have you told this boyfriend of yours? You know, given him a heads up so he doesn’t get the wrong idea or whatever.”
“The wrong idea?”
I raise a brow.
“Yeah. He may assume that you’re still in love with me or something—but don’t worry … I won’t tell if you don’t.” He winks and I roll my eyes.
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Hey—I’m just being realistic.” He glances at me. “How do you think I feel, anyway? This isn’t ideal for me either. I’m abstinent. At this rate, I’ll never have sex again.”
I gape at him. “Excuse me?”
“Honestly, after all that shit with—forget it. I can’t handle it. I’m not having sex until I’m married now—or, you know what I mean.”
I stare at him in complete disbelief, but his attention has waned.
He moves around me and makes a beeline for the small drinks cabinet tucked in the corner of my kitchen.
“Wow, this is some collection you have,” he says, picking up a bottle of ruby port and rolling it in his hands.
“Please don’t touch,” I say, moving towards him and reaching for the bottle. “That one is special.”
