Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
BETTSY
I pace the pavement outside the salon, practically wearing a groove in the paving slabs as I try to get through to a local taxi company. I guess this is a by-product of a busy Saturday night.
I’m about to hit re-dial when the door to the salon squeaks open, shifting my attention to Ellie as she slips out onto the street wearing a coat over her fitted work tunic.
I’m not sure if it’s my vow of celibacy or the fact that I’m still as attracted to her as I’ve always been, but I check her out. The streetlamps shine down on her and I’m drawn to the curve of her waist and?—
I snap out of my daydream when she says my name. And I mean, it’s rare that anyone calls me Mike or Michael day-to-day, but I sort of like the way she does.
“Yeah?” I say, shoving my phone away.
“Thanks.”
“For?”
“Apologising. You’re right. I had always imagined my wedding day … and it wasn’t that. I guess I was taking my anger out on you. ”
“Yeah, well…”
“Are you going to be okay getting home?” she asks.
“I’m trying to get a cab. I need to get back to my folks’ house and see if my dad could take me to the station in the morning or something. I didn’t think it through, if I’m honest. I guess … why change the habit of a lifetime?”
She gives me a tentative smile, like she’s not sure how it’ll land.
“I’d offer to take you, but I’ve had a drink, and I’ve got a flat. I tried to change the tyre myself, but I couldn’t get the bolts undone and … never mind.”
I guess this explains why she’s here.
“And you didn’t think to call that guy you’re seeing?” My tone comes out a little more bitter than I intended. “Don’t tell me he didn’t come to your rescue.”
Her eyes widen, then she clears her throat.
“It’s still early days—I mean, I didn’t want to concern him.”
My heart sinks. But what gets me the most is I’m bothered. Why the hell am I bothered?
“I’m sure he’d be happy to help. Most guys take it as a win. Feeling needed and all that stuff. I would, anyway. Knight in shining armour…” I feel my cheeks heating. “Where’s your car key?”
“My car key?”
“Yeah. The key for your car.”
She rolls her eyes.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says. “I’ll get Greg, my brother-in-law, to swing by.”
She dips her hand into her pocket and pulls out her phone.
“Let me help. I’m here. Honestly, Kitch—I can get it swapped out in no time. You’ve got a space saver, right?”
“I—yeah.”
“Then pass me the key, please. ”
She sighs then reaches into the other pocket of her coat, rummaging around before extracting a bunch of keys and handing them to me.
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 you not to 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.
“And I did,” I say, my voice raising a notch in volume.
“Well, I obviously you didn’t.”
“So maybe I put in your number wrong. You can’t be angry with me for that.”
She wrinkles her nose. “You knew where I lived. You didn’t even bother to knock when you got home. You just went about your business … getting with the next girl in line… Juli e?—”
“I don’t even remember a Julie,” I say, blowing out a breath.
“What did you want me to do, Kitch? Knock on your door and ask you why didn’t you answer my calls or texts after I was explicitly told to not call again?
I was humiliated. Embarrassed that I let myself think, even for a single second, that I may stand a chance with you. ” My breath fogs in the cold air.
“Give it a rest, Mike. You were interested in Julie Goldsworthy, so I can only imagine how humiliated you were.”
I can feel my jaw twitching as the frustration builds.
“I guess I was settling,” I say. “That’s the only thing I can think of.
I don’t mean this to sound in any way bad on Julia, but …
when you don’t typically get attention, you get excited when someone is interested.
And I am, again, embarrassed to admit it.
I’ve been doing it ever since. There. I said it. ”
She looks at me for a moment and because I’m fucking freezing, I squat down and get to work on the bolts of the flat tyre.
“Settling?” she echoes.
“Forget it,” I snap.
Silence stretches between us, tension crackling like static.
Usually, I’m the one who can’t bear it—I’m the one who caves, who needs resolution. But this time, I’m weirdly relieved when she breaks first.
“Can we call a truce, please? The back-and-forth isn’t helping anyone.”
I don’t answer. I just dig the lug wrench around the bolt and twist hard, channelling everything into the motion.
But then she says my name.
“Mike…”
A single syllable delivered in such an intense softness, I can’t help but pause, keen to hear whatever she’s got to say.
I shift my attention, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye—enough for her to know I’m listening.
“I need a favour,” she says. “I mean—it’s not a favour like that but…”
“What do you need?” I bite.
“Greg said the document I had is only part of it. It’s not the full certificate and the solicitor he’s lined up to help me said he needs it to proceed.”
“Full certificate?” I say, standing up.
“Do you remember taking any paperwork home?”
I let out a dry laugh. “Kitch—I don’t even remember getting any paperwork.”
She frowns. “Well, could you at least think about it? We’re stuck without it.”
“I guess I could look through my old boxes,” I say.
“Right, well, I’ll be grateful if you could … as soon as you can.”
“I’ve got camp this week, so the chances are slim, but I’ll get on to it as soon as it’s over.”
“Okay.”
I crouch back down, tighten the last bolt before I stow the flat in the boot, and brush the dirt from my hands.
That’s that, I guess.
“Make sure you get the tyre replaced soon. You shouldn’t drive on a space saver for more than fifty miles. And don’t go speeding off down the motorway—they aren’t designed for speed. Best to stay under fifty. Just remember ‘fifty for fifty’.”
“Right, thanks.”
I hand back her keys and she slips the wad back in her pocket.
“Okay. You’re good to go,” I say, stepping back to let her pass.
“I can’t drive tonight,” she says. “I’ve had a drink.”
I look between her and the car. “Want me to drive you home?”
“You’re not insured,” she says.
“Yeah, I am. Team policy lets me drive anything under the fleet agreement, fully comp,” I shrug. “But if you’d prefer I didn’t?—”
Her expression softens, then she nods.
“I just need to grab my things and lock up.”