Page 53 of The Home Grown
She scowls at me. And it’s clear that this isn’t up for debate.
“Okay, okay, I’m going,” I say, pulling my shirt on.
I don’t waste time with the buttons, pushing my arms into the sleeves of my jacket instead before sitting back down on the bed to pull my socks and shoes on.
By the time I’m standing again, Ellie’s pulled on a pair of leggings and tidied her hair back, making her neck all exposed and stuff.
There’s a brief moment when she catches my eye, parting her lips slightly before speaking.
“I … thanks again for yesterday. With the tyre,” she says. “And thanks for listening to my worldly problems.”
“Yeah, no problem,” I say. “Oh, I know a guy at the High Street Tyre Centre. If you call in and tell him Bettsy sent you … he’ll get you fixed with a new wheel. Sorry I can’t help with the web-site stuff though.”
She nods, muttering a thanks before dashing towards her bedroom door.
I follow her lead, down the narrow staircase and dipping into the living room as Ellie hangs by the front door.
“Good luck tomorrow, Mike,” she says.
And I want to say something back. I want to tell her I … but I can’t find the words, so I smile and turn away.
Then I leave.
ELLIE
Guilt hitsme as soon as the back door closes, but I know Kathryn’s judgement would be a million times worse.
I watch Mike disappear out of sight, standing still for a moment as I run through the events of last night, because even though it’s fresh in my mind—albeit slightly fuzzy around the edges—it’s still bizarre.
If someone had told me I’d end up in bed with Mike Betts two weeks after finding that cursed red wallet, I’d be asking what they’d taken because last night was the dictionary definition of ‘that escalated quickly’.
But my sister’s due any moment now, so I shove the thought aside and get moving, moving back to the living room.
There’s a knock on the front door as I finish tidying the empties from the living room and I wonder how long I can leave her waiting on the doorstep before she knocks again.
Answer: less than two seconds.
“What the hell happened to you?” Kathryn says as I open the door.
She looks me up and down with the most judgiest of looks before she exhales sharply, reminding me I made the right choice by asking Mike to leave.
“Oh, my God. You look like shit. Are you hungover?”
I suck in a breath as I open the door wider to let her in.
“Good morning,” I say.
It’s morning, sure, but whether it’s good or not is still up for debate given the events of last night.
She moves into the tiny hall, stepping over the threshold and looking through to the living room directly adjacent.
“You had a guy over? Don’t tell me Mark finally got in touch.”
She shoots me another glare, all silent disapproval as she casts her eyes around my living room.
“No, I didn’t,” I say, moving towards the sofa and plumping a ‘Mike’s ass’ shaped cushion.
We’d moved into the living room when he began telling me about his warm-up routine. I don’t even remember how it came up in conversation, but the topic had shifted to his long list of hockey superstitions and one of his ‘non-negotiable biggies’, apparently, was the exact order of his pre-game stretches.
