Page 71 of The Home Grown
I don’t really care but I’m interested to know how serious they are, I guess.
“Dunno. She’s been coming and going at odd times.”
Greer shrugs like it’s nothing, but my jaw tightens because as Langer’s friend turns to leave, she glances around the room, and I catch sight of her face, and I swear there’s something familiar about her.
The line shuffles forward, and I grab a plate, passing it to Greer before I take one for myself.
Then, as if on cue, my phone vibrates again, hard and insistent in my pocket. I slip my hand inside, extract it enough so I can glance at the screen, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Vicky
Need to talk to you.
Urgently.
It’s about your WIFE.
I swallow hard, reading that last message in Vicky’s voice. Vicky’sangryvoice.
Shit.
I fumble to unlock my phone one-handed, and it slips out of my grasp, falling and bouncing a few paces along the floor but it’s Greer that’s bending down to retrieve it—probably trying to show off his lightning-fast goalie reflexes.
He scoops the phone into his massive hand, and I watch, as if in slow motion, his eyes flick over the screen.
“Oh, damn, Betts. I didn’t realise you were married?” Greer’s voice cuts through my rising panic as he hands me my phone.
I slam it face-down on the buffet counter and take a step back, nearly knocking into someone behind me. My chest tightens as my phone buzzes again, and as I reach for it and check the screen, there’s an incoming call from Vicky.
“I—I need to get this,” I say, grabbing my phone and ducking out of the queue, but I don’t answer straight away. I can’t.
Chapter Fourteen
BETTSY
I pacearound the hotel lobby, probably pissing off the guy who’s just finished buffing the floors, but I can’t help it. I’m waiting, bracing myself, for the next time my phone rings.
Sure enough, I don’t wait long. It vibrates in my hand and Vicky’s name flashes up on the screen for the third time in less than ten minutes and I finally pluck up the courage to answer it.
Deep breath.
“Heyyyy, Vic, how’s it going?” I try to keep my tone casual—jovial, if you will, but she’s seething. I can practically feel her rage vibrating through my phone.
“What the hell is going on?” she says. “Because I just got off a call with Michelle and she said Coach?—”
“Who the fuck is Michelle?” I ask.
Vicky huffs. “Forget it. It’s not important. But do you want to tell me why the hell Coach Harris thinks you’remarried?”
Even though I knew this was coming, my throat tightens, and the nausea creeps in. I scan the lobby for the closest bin, just in case.
“Look—I can explain,” I say. But I quickly realise I can’t—not without telling Vicky how much of a fuck up I am. Though, let’s face it, it’s notnewnews, is it?
I pluck the cap off my head and perch myself on the arm of a chair in the far corner of the reception area, trying to figure out the best way to approach this. But Vicky’s keen; she doesn’t give me any time to think. She’s on me like a forechecker on a lazy D-man: relentless and stubborn.
“Start talking, Michael,” she snaps. “Because when I schedule the post?—”
I tune into her choice of words.
