ELLIE
“Hey, Kitch. Have you missed me?”
Mike Betts’ sing-song voice vibrates through my car speakers, causing me to gasp in panic.
Does he know? Does he somehow know about my online antics?
I decide the best thing I can do is remain passive—act like everything is how it was before he spent the night in my bed. Although I was hoping to get the chance to call him out for changing Rick’s name to ‘ Prick’ in my phone contacts, I decide against it.
“What do you want?” I ask, trying to keep my tone level.
“I’m great, thanks, I appreciate you asking—listen, don’t suppose you’ve got my wallet, have you? I’m hoping it’s in your car or something. The trousers I had on last weekend were crap and?—”
“How has it taken you this long to notice you haven’t had your wallet?” I ask.
“I didn’t need it—I use my phone to pay for stuff, but I remembered I had a winning scratch card tucked in my wallet and… I guess I’m feeling lucky. I want to cash it in and get a fresh one.”
“I’ll have to check,” I say. “I’m driving at the moment.”
“Oh, cool—been anywhere nice?”
I pause, tempted to open up about my social life—but I stop myself. I’m not sure where we stand, and I don’t want to assume we’re friends just because we’ve had one weird night and a few decent conversations.
“Not really,” I say. “But I’ll look for your wallet when I stop.”
“Cheers. If you find it, could you text me and let me know? I can swing around and pick it up. ”
We hang up and I make it back to my place, climbing out of my car and crouching down to survey the footwell and the underside of the driver’s seat. And alas, Mike’s wallet has indeed wedged itself underneath. How I never noticed it before is beyond me.
I pull up his number from my last called list and drop him a text.
Ellie
Got your wallet.
He replies instantly.
Mike
Great, thanks. Shall I come get it?
I consider it for a moment before deciding it’s not a good idea to have Mike over again, purely because I still have around half a bottle of Macallen left and after last time…
I tap out a reply.
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.
Drive away, Ellie. Drive away.
But I don’t.
There’s a tightness in my chest, and as I release the handbrake to pull off again, I creep along the pavement next to a speed-walking Mike instead.
I wind the window down, my mind telling me one thing and my body doing another in the ultimate act of betrayal.
“Get in,” I say.
And he doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s like a dog returning with a ball to be thrown again, jogging around the back of my car and opening the passenger door with enthusiasm.
I’m quick to move the ‘to go’ box I got from the restaurant earlier so he can climb in.
“Oh, this is fancy,” he says, eyeing the box that’s now sitting precariously on my dashboard. “Anything decent?”
“Which way? ”
He shows me which direction to take while reaching for the box so he can peer inside, a noise of disapproval rumbling from his throat.
“You had a salad to go?” he says. “A fucking salad?”
“I wasn’t feeling it,” I say.
“I’m not surprised. No one feels a salad,” he says.
“I didn’t want anything heavy.”
I don’t go into detail about my pre-wedding-that’s-not-my-wedding diet, but in all honesty, ever since Kathryn called me out, I’ve been overly conscious about it—and having dinner with her and her friends meant I had eyes on me the entire evening.
“Did you have a date with Langer?” he says in a prickly tone, keeping his eyes on the passing scenery.
“No. Besides, I told you … it’s social.”
I can’t be sure, but I’m half convinced he exhales a heavy breath. He doesn’t say anything, simply points towards the Shell garage, which comes into view as I round a corner.
I pull onto the forecourt, and he hops out, leaving the box of salad on my dashboard.
I tell myself not to look. That I don’t care. That I’m just waiting.
But I can’t pull my eyes away. I watch him right up to the point of disappearing inside, dragging my eyes to my phone, tapping at the screen like I’ve suddenly remembered something urgent because there’s no way he can catch me staring when he comes back.
My car door opens a few moments later, and he climbs inside, a waft of whatever scent he’s wearing forcing me to hold my breath.
“Got you something,” he says, dumping a pile of chocolate bars into the centre console.
“What’re those for?” I ask.
“It’s criminal not to buy anything for the driver when you run into a petrol station. And since I don’t know what your favourite is, I got a selection.”
My stomach rumbles in excitement, but I shift my attention away from the treats.
“And those?” I ask, eyeing a wad of scratch cards.
Mike grins.
“If I win a fiver or less, I reinvest. Here—have three on me. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
He tears three cards off and passes them over, then digs around in his wallet for a penny, dropping it into my free hand.
“I don’t even remember the last time I played a scratch card,” I say, peering at the cards.
“I don’t do them often—for the record. My roommate, Hutch, got me one as a celebration thing for getting selected for the preliminary roster and it was a winner.”
He plucks another penny from the coin compartment of his wallet and gets to work scratching, and I do the same, brushing the silver dust off my lap as I go.
“Nothing here,” he says after a silent minute. “Anything for you?”
“Two ‘￡2’s’ and … nothing,” I say, handing him back the winners.
“Keep them,” he says. “Maybe you’ll get a bigger prize next time.”
“I—”
“Keep them, Kitch. See it as a thank you for returning my wallet.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it,” I say.
Mike leans forward, reaching for a bar of chocolate.
“Which one do you want?”
My stomach rumbles with excitement, but I shake my head.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Really? Are you sure? ”
“I’m on a wedding diet,” I admit. “For my sister’s wedding?—”
“I fail to see what that’s got to do with you. You don’t need to diet, anyway.”
I can feel my face growing hot, so I switch up the conversation, wondering if I can shift the topic away from me—desperate not to give anything away.
“How’s this week been at camp?” I ask.
Mike scoffs, swallowing before he answers. “Fine, I guess.”
“Okay, good,” I say.
“Your boyfriend didn’t turn up until Wednesday, but I guess you already knew that.”
The way he says ‘boyfriend’ has me snapping my head in his direction.
“He’s not my?—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
But he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, moving his attention to a plastic carrier bag drifting across the forecourt in the breeze as he stuffs his empty chocolate wrapper into the pocket of his hoodie.
Something definitely isn’t right. And I have a feeling it’s nothing to do with Rick Langdon.
“Are you sure everything’s okay? With camp and?—?”
“The outcome is tomorrow,” he says, turning his attention to his nails this time.
“Well, that’s good, right?”
“Yeah, I hope so. They typically don’t make a final roster decision until after the playoffs but Coach said they’re doing things a little differently this year.”
“Even better then, right?”
“I guess,” he shrugs. “But?—”
“But?” I prompt, turning in my seat to face him.
I study his expression but it’s like trying to read a badly drawn map. Impossible and confusing .
“Is this something to do with the wedding certificate? Did you find it?” My voice trembles, but he huffs, rubbing his hands over his face before tentatively turning towards me.
“Nah, it’s not that—I still haven’t had a chance to look yet but … I need to ask a favour.”
“A favour?”
I glare at him, racking my brain. What could he want from me? A red flag whips in the wind when he doesn’t look at me. He keeps his attention fixed on the forecourt straight ahead.
“Mike?”
But then his eyes meet mine and a knot forms in my stomach.
I’ve never seen him like this before. Serious … uncertain. And he looks like he’s about to pass out.
“Kitch—hear me out, yeah?”