Page 63 of The Home Grown
Ellie
I can drop it off.
And as quick as a flash, he sends me his live location.
I climb back into the driver’s seat, set the sat nav, and immediately start questioning my life choices.
The drive only takes fifteen minutes, and I spend all 900 seconds trying not to think about a half-naked Mike in my bed. I do such a terrible job, my hands are practically shaking as I pull up outside the large, detached house.
I count at least four cars on the driveway, and I wonder if I can safely make it to the front door and back with no one noticing. The plan, I quickly conclude, is formed of four simple steps: get out of the car, post the wallet through the letterbox, get back in the car and drive away, dignity intact.
But Mike has other ideas.
As soon as I reach for the handle of the drivers’ door, the front door to number ten flings open and Mike jogs out like he was waiting for me.
Okay, plan ‘B’…
I’ll wind down my window and hold out the wallet for him to take. That way, the interaction is minimal, and he’ll never guess I’ve been having sex dreams about him.
I watch as he approaches the car and I wait until the last second to run with the plan, winding down the window and stretching my arm out, wallet in hand.
I can’t even look at him. I can’t even…
“Thanks, Kitch,” he says. “I owe you one.”
He takes his wallet and backs away from the car. Then I breathe a sigh of relief.
I wind my window back up, desperate for the safety of my car as I keep my eyes on the road ahead.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot him walking several paces before stopping, turning back towards my car.
Crap.
He moves closer and taps on the window.
I brace myself.
“Yeah?” I say, opening the window.
“Hey, sorry to be cheeky, but you wouldn’t mind giving me a ride to the petrol station and back, would you? I want to cash in my winnings.”
He pulls out the winning scratch card and waves it in the air.
“Uh, there’re like four cars on your drive?—”
“Yeah, but mine is cold and … umm … you know what? Don’t worry. I could do with the fresh air. Thanks for bringing this over.” He taps the front of his wallet before slipping it into the pouch of his hoodie, then he turns away, pulling his hood up over his head.
Something’s not right.
I’m not overly familiar with Mike on a typical day, but he’s usually self-assured and confident and during the minimal interaction I’ve had with him, I can see he’s acting weird—and I genuinely don’t think it’s got anything to do with me and my smutty dreams. It’s as if he’s on edge or something …
I ponder it for a moment before deciding it’s not my problem—it has nothing to do with me at all.
I shift my car into gear and move to release my handbrake, but instead of pulling away and driving off into the night, I sit there, still.
Why the hell can’t I drive away?
I take a breath, then push myself to release the clutch, but after a second of the car creeping forward, I stop again and re-engage the handbrake.
