Chapter Fifty-Four Netta
Chapter Fifty-Four
NETTA
Freya’s lounge was chaos, strewn with toys and laundry and crayons.
Discarded remnants of their fish and chips dinner lay on the coffee table and the lights were dimmed, the kids all finally asleep and Freya exhausted on the couch.
Netta sat cross-legged on the floor among the mess, numbed by a misery that seemed to thicken with every day that passed.
She knew it would get easier, eventually.
But right now her grief was a fifth limb, carried with her everywhere, and Mo’s email had made it even heavier.
‘Play it again,’ said Freya.
Mechanically, Netta opened Mo’s email and pressed play, sparking Freya’s Bluetooth speaker to life. Mo counted himself in at the start—a mumbled one, two, three, four that hooked Netta through the heart—and then he started singing.
Years in the bright lights
But always in the dark
Through the black you shone
And found my buried heart
You opened me like a gift
When I thought I was a curse
You’ve seen my darkest corners
You’re more than I deserve
Sorry isn’t enough
You undid me, you made me
Three words could never tell
You found me, you saved me
Hidden in plain sight
Locked behind secret doors
My shadow’s been my keeper
Now I just want to be yours
I held you like a treasure
Then I set it all alight
I’d give forever to take it back
A chance to make it right
Sorry isn’t enough
You undid me, you made me
Three words could never tell
You found me, you saved me
You’re diamonds on the waves
The city lit at night
You’re the sunrise over mountains
A fire burning bright
Hinges creaking open
Locked doors burned into ash
Here I am, just hoping you’ll
Still want to hold my hand
The song was bare, free of the bass guitar and drums that normally drove Mo’s music.
Just his fingers strumming and plucking at the strings of an acoustic guitar and his voice, the texture of it like roughly hewn timber.
Netta wanted to run her fingers over it, to physically feel its transitions between smooth and rough.
He loved her. At least, that’s what she thought he was trying to say.
He didn’t exactly spell it out—the ‘L’ word was distinctly absent—but the lyrics were an aching admission: their story, his torment and his hope.
But it was too much to deal with on top of losing the baby. Way too much, way too late.
The song ended and there was a long silence before Freya spoke. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she sniffed, reaching for a cold chip.
‘Are you crying?’ asked Netta.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘I’ve cried so much this last week, I’ve got nothing left.’
‘But he loves you, Netta!’ said Freya. ‘Can’t you hear it in his voice? And those lyrics …’ She trailed off, a dreamy expression softening her features.
‘Yeah, but why couldn’t he just say it? And why’s it taken so long? I’ve been tortured for weeks and now I’ve lost the baby—’ She cleared her throat. ‘And then there are the photos of him and Lorena Long.’
‘Okay, I get that his timing is terrible. But as for the photos, you know better than most people how misleading those paparazzi shots can be,’ said Freya.
‘Seems to me that if he was with Lorena, he wouldn’t have written the most beautiful love song in the history of love songs for you. Know what I’m saying?’
Netta took a moment before she answered. ‘You didn’t see them together,’ she said flatly. ‘They make sense. He and I? We don’t. We just don’t.’
‘He obviously thinks you do.’
Netta sighed. ‘Why are you on his side? Aren’t you supposed to be my wingwoman?’
‘You know I’m your Goose for life,’ said Freya, reaching over to rub Netta’s knee. ‘I just don’t want you to miss out on something amazing because his timing’s a bit off.’
‘It’s more than the timing,’ said Netta.
‘I’m so messed up about the miscarriage and I’m about to turn forty.
I can’t wait much longer if I want to try for a baby on my own.
I can’t let anything—or anyone—get in the way or I’m going to miss out.
’ Her voice snagged on the thorny reality of her situation.
‘So, what are you going to do about it?’
‘The song or the baby?’
Freya rolled her eyes. ‘The song.’
‘I’m not going to do anything about it. It’s time to move on and move forward. No more drama.’
‘Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what would happen if you gave him a chance?’
‘No,’ Netta lied. ‘I know exactly what would happen, and I’m not going there. In fact …’
She reached for her phone once again and opened Mo’s email, then hovered her finger over the delete button and pressed.