ELLIE
God, I hope he answers.
With a shaky hand, I press the buzzer for Mike’s apartment, trying to steady my breathing.
Please pick up. Please pick up.
“Yeah?” The line crackles to life as a voice cuts through the speaker, causing my heart to bounce in my chest.
It’s him. Thank God, it’s him.
“It’s me,” I say, swallowing down a fresh wave of tears. “Kitch.”
I stare at the intercom, waiting for him to say something, but there’s a static buzz as the lobby door unlatches seconds before the connection drops.
The lobby is empty, all bar a plastic-looking plant next to the lift. I edge closer, hiking my bag higher on my shoulder, and jab the call button several times.
Seventh floor.
Sixth floor.
Fifth floor.
Fourth floor.
A door swings open behind me and I spin to see Mike, jogging from the stairwell, trainers unlaced, a cap pulled low over his eyes.
“Oh, my God,” he says. “Are you okay? Did she—” He rushes towards me as the lift pings to a stop behind me. “You’re alright, yeah?”
And that’s all it takes—someone asking how I am for me to burst into tears. Full-on, heaving sobs, like I’ve been holding them in for years. Big, bulbous tears streak down my cheeks, hot and relentless .
My shoulder lightens as Mike lifts the strap of my bag away. Then, in one smooth motion, he scoops me up like I weigh nothing. His fresh, woody scent fills my nose, momentarily dulling the ache of betrayal inside me.
“I’m sorry, Mike. I’m sorry I missed your game,” I say, blinking away the tears. “I got to the rink and there was no one there and?—”
“The rink?” he says. “Your text said you might not make it and?—”
“I had the webcast and my phone died and when I got off the train I just got a cab to the rink and the driver was asking me all these questions and then I missed?—”
I gasp. Waiting for the air to hit my lungs.
“You’re okay, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft and buttery as he holds me tighter.
Sweetheart.
“But I missed your game,” I say into his chest. “I tried to get there in time for the end but I missed it … and I asked someone and they said you?—”
But I can’t bring myself to say it. Lost .
“Ah, don’t worry about it. I play lots of games,” he says. “Honestly, I was really worried about you. I mean, Kathryn?—”
I pull away sharply and peer up at him.
“Oh, my God—it was my fault, wasn’t it? I knocked your concentration. I’m the reason you?—”
He plants a kiss on my lips, stopping the words in my throat. “It wasn’t your fault. I mean, if I’m going to point fingers it was our third line D but … it’s a team game. We couldn’t pull it back. Shit happens.”
He shrugs, like it was just a casual friendly that they’ll play again next week, but I see it. The flicker of disappointment behind his half-smile .
“But—”
“Kitch,” he says. “Don’t worry. Honestly, it’s fine. In fact—it’s probably better you didn’t see that game. I mean, imagine having that as your first memory of seeing me play.”
He lets a smirk creep across his face.
“Shall we go up?” he asks, wiping a rolling tear from my cheek with a coarse thumb.
I peel myself away from him, nodding and moving to reach for my bag, but he picks it up and bundles us into the lift, hitting the button for the fifth floor.
“So, she knows, huh?” he says, keeping his attention on the illuminated ‘5’ on the control panel.
“She does,” I say, trying to remember how much detail I went into on my text message.
I told him about the salon, the change of name, the new employee, and I told him that Greg turned up half an hour after Kathryn’s disappearance with ‘bad news’—the bad news being that she read his emails. The ones he sent his ‘friend’ about my predicament.
Kathryn knows Mike and I are married—or suspects we are, anyway.
“I think you should probably tell your mam,” I say. “She had an appointment last week and mentioned she was going to look at having a coffee and a catch-up with my mam and if Kathryn knows … it’s only a matter of time. It’s probably better coming from you.”
Mike exhales sharply. “Right.”
The lift comes to a stop, and he tugs at my hand, pulling me into the hallway and leading me towards a door propped open by a hockey bag.
He leads me inside, stopping to take his shoes off in the cluttered entrance hall.
Hockey stuff, shoes, a coat rack full of clothes. There’s stuff everywhere. But it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels cosy.
“Uh, sorry about the mess,” he says, kicking the door closed behind us. “Hutch is having a clear out and?—”
“Don’t worry.”
“Come on through,” he says.
He guides me to the living area, almost in darkness, bar a lamp in the corner. He nudges me towards the sofa where I drop down, letting the cushions envelop me.
Mike disappears, returning a moment later with a glass of water and a roll of toilet paper, bunching off several sheets and thrusting them into my palm.
“I’d make you a brew, but we’re out of milk,” he says.
“It’s fine, thanks.”
And I just sit there and cry. Mourning the loss of my tattered relationship with my sister. Because there’s no going back from this. There’s no way she can make this right.
“My sister’s such a bitch,” I say, dabbing my eyes with the tissue.
“And do you know what’s worse? My mam knew the whole time.
My mam knew Kathryn was re-branding. That came out too.
When I rang her earlier, she told me it’s Kathryn’s business and I need to support her.
I need to support her. I mean—when has she ever supported me in return? ”
The reality of the situation hits me hard in the chest. Everything I’ve done for her in the past and this is how she repays the favour?
A fresh wave of tears flow and Mike’s enormous arms engulf me. He smooths my hair and pulls me onto his lap. Cocooning me in a warmth I didn’t realise I needed.
“Shhh, it’ll be okay,” he whispers.
“I don’t know if it will. And now I’ve lumbered all this crap on you and?—”
“It’s fine,” he says softly.
“And now I can’t face going home, Mike. I mean …
Kathryn would likely call in and tell me I’m over-reacting.
She’d lecture me and give me a rundown of the way things are going to work and there’d be an expectation for me to wear a smile and get on with it.
And I can’t go to my mam and dad’s because they’re on ‘Team Kathryn’—well, Mam is, and Dad goes along with anything to keep the peace. ”
“It’s okay,” he says, but I’m barely listening. I’m still reasoning, probably for my own sanity more than anything.
“And Jess is having issues with Phil and?—”
“C’mon, it’s okay. I’m glad you came here.” He pauses. “I’ve got you.”
I swallow down a sob.
“You can stay here,” he says. “You’re my wife, remember? What’s mine is yours and all that.” His tone is jovial, like he’s trying to make this shitty situation a little less so, but his words spark something in me.
I dab my eyes dry and focus in on him, his eyes meeting mine with a shine of something in the dim light of the room.
But there’s something not-so-funny about this. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me. Like this isn’t just a joke anymore.
“Mike?” I say, pressing a hand to his cheek.
“Yeah?”
It’s probably the pent-up emotion I’ve been harbouring all day—that, and the fact I haven’t had sex in a very long time, but I’m looking at his lips and I want him to kiss me again.
I can feel the space between us closing, but he doesn’t make a move. He’s just looking at me with lust-filled eyes and longing.
This feels different. Charged. A pull I can’t ignore.
He leans in, his lips brushing mine, and it’s like a fire has ignited in my stomach. He pulls me in, relaxing around me. Then his hand is cupping my cheek, his coarse fingers making me shiver—it feels good. Like I want more. Like I want his hands to roam, to see if they feel like that everywhere.
I shouldn’t … I really shouldn’t. Shouldn’t I?
Maybe I’m overthinking this. But then I completely surprise myself; I lean back onto the sofa and pull him down on top of me.