Chapter Fifty-Seven Netta
Chapter Fifty-Seven
NETTA
Netta slid to the kitchen floor, back against a cupboard, and let it all out.
Deep, racking sobs hollowed her, scooping out her insides until there was nothing left.
After the miscarriage, she had thought nothing would ever be able to make her cry again.
She’d thought she’d used up her life’s quota of tears.
That nothing would ever match the loss she’d felt.
That nothing would ever make her feel sad again, because how could it?
How could anything touch her when she’d been through something like that and come out the other side, still breathing?
And yet, here she was, realising that grief came in many guises.
It seemed letting Mo go had found a new part of her heart to break.
As the tears dried up, she took a deep, steadying breath and rested the back of her head against the cupboard door, softly smacking her hand against her thigh.
What have I done?
Smack.
The smart thing. He’s trouble.
Smack.
But I love him.
Smack.
But he’ll ruin you.
Smack.
I think he loves me back.
Smack.
Men like that can’t love you.
Smack.
Her head and heart battled it out as she spectated, waiting for the right answer to present itself. But despite the showdown, there was no winner. Just a cloud of grey indecision.
Netta pushed herself up off the floor and eyed the parcel on the bench.
It was beautifully wrapped in striped paper and a bronzed bow.
She touched it cautiously, as though daring to pat a growling dog.
She slid out of her heels and took the box from the counter, carrying it carefully to her bed.
She set it on the doona and sat, cross-legged, to open it.
The bow slid open easily and Netta ran its silky length through her fingers before laying it across her lap. Painstakingly, so as not to tear the paper, she opened the present.
Inside, an envelope sat upon a box. She set it to the side and opened the lid, an achingly familiar scent washing over her as she revealed a glass-encased candle, exactly the same as the one from her hotel in London—a cinnamon and vanilla portal to her time with Mo.
She raised it to her nose and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.
She clutched the candle to her chest for a moment, then cradled it in her lap to open the card.
Dear Netta,
I’ve missed you so much. The pain has felt like the exact punishment I deserved for the way I treated you, but now I realise that missing you is part of loving you. Because I do. I love you, Netta.
I thought, maybe, this candle might bring happy memories back for you. I remember you telling me how much you loved the smell of your hotel room.
Something else, a real treasure (don’t ask me what I had to do to get it) is hidden underneath.
Mo x
Netta’s eyes flicked back to I love you, Netta and lingered, the words I love you, too already formed on her tongue—a trapped truth ready to be freed. She felt illuminated, finally, after weeks of blackness, despite the logical part of her brain screaming at her to run the other way.
Netta took the candle from its gilded box and found a folded sheet of paper underneath, covered in scrawly handwriting.
It was the recipe for Gianna’s meatballs, the ones they’d had at Bianchi’s.
The recipe Gianna had vowed she’d die before she ever shared.
Netta held the paper to her heart, folded it carefully and reached for her phone.
Mo answered on the first ring. ‘Netta?’ His voice was raw.
‘I’m sorry for how I was when you came over tonight. I guess I just thought I had everything figured out and seeing you made me realise that maybe I don’t.’
‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ he said.
‘It’s me who needs to apologise. I’d love a chance to explain.
I don’t expect you to leap into my arms or anything, but I need you to know what happened.
I don’t want to feed you excuses, I just—I just need you to know how much you mean to me. And I don’t want you to hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you, Mo.’ Netta bit her tongue against the urge to tell him she loved him. ‘And I don’t want things to end badly between us twice. Are you around for a while? Could you … could you come over tomorrow night, maybe?’
‘Definitely.’ Mo’s eagerness sounded foreign to him, like a new language he was just beginning to learn. ‘I’m staying at a hotel on Southbank. I’ve got the room for a few days.’
‘Why don’t we say seven?’ suggested Netta. ‘I’ll make us dinner.’
‘That sounds perfect.’
Netta could hear the relief and smile in his voice and her chest lit up with the anticipation of seeing him again.
She hung up and let the swirl of emotions settle in her stomach.
Their story hadn’t ended. It wasn’t finished.
They weren’t finished. But what did that mean for Netta?
For her baby plans? Before Mo had turned up, the path forward had been well lit and signposted.
She would have a baby on her own. The first specialist appointment was already scheduled.
The wheels were in motion. Now, it seemed, there was an unmapped fork in the trail.
Netta took the candle to the kitchen and lit it, its soft glow an instant comfort.
She carried it carefully through to the lounge and sat it on the coffee table as she sank into the couch next to her laptop, opening the screen to find her email still open.
Sitting in her deleted items, she knew, was Mo’s song, and in that moment, as the scent of cinnamon and vanilla transported her, every cell of her body craved it.
She opened the discarded email and clicked on the link.
His voice filled the room like sunshine as she lay back on the cushions and let her heart crack open to hear his words properly, letting them warm her right to her bones.
***
The following afternoon, Netta stood back to appraise her haul.
She’d been to the South Melbourne Market and loaded up on everything she’d need, and her tiny kitchen bench was straining under fresh ingredients, crackers, cheese and two bottles of red wine—real for Mo, non-alcoholic for herself.
She looked over the recipe to triple-check she had everything and then got to work.
When the doorbell rang at seven o’clock, Netta was freshly showered—her legs shaved and moisturised, hair washed—and dressed in her favourite denim cut-offs and a white linen cami which, despite being the lightest thing she owned, still felt like a camel hair jumper in the heat of the overworked kitchen.
A rich, tomatoey scent bubbled from inside the oven and a Hozier playlist drifted from the speaker in the lounge.
Netta wiped her hands on a tea towel and threw it on the bench. ‘Here goes nothing,’ she muttered as she walked barefoot up the hall.
Mo’s silhouette appeared through the frosted glass of the front door and her step faltered, a prickling sensation racing over her skin. She stopped at the hall mirror and quickly checked herself out, tugging at her shorts and smoothing her hair.
This was it.
Her hand trembled on the latch as she swung the door open.
There he was, dressed in black shorts and a denim shirt, sleeves rolled up. He clutched a bottle of wine in one hand and a bunch of white peonies in the other. He smelled incredible. She had no hope.
‘Hi.’ His smile was tentative. He looked nervous.
Netta did her best to arrange her suddenly rubberised face into a return smile. ‘Come in.’
‘These are for you,’ he said, handing her the flowers as he stepped inside.
‘They’re beautiful, thank you.’ Netta’s heart hammered and she was grateful for the task of finding a vase big enough to accommodate the blooms. ‘I’d better get them into some water.
’ She skittered down the hallway, leaving him to follow, and dug out a big ceramic vase from the back of the pantry.
‘I found this at a vintage market in Daylesford,’ she said, filling it from the kitchen tap.
She unwrapped the flowers and settled them into the vase. ‘There. Beautiful.’
Mo hadn’t said a word since he’d entered the apartment, and when Netta finally looked at him, he was watching her intently, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
‘It smells pretty good in here.’
‘They’re ready. I just put them in the oven to keep them warm until you got here.’
‘Is it …’
Netta nodded shyly. ‘I thought I’d have a go at it, seeing as you must’ve sold your soul to get the recipe. Do I even want to know how you got her to share it?’
‘Ha.’ He shook his head and grinned. ‘It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure. But when I told her I’d been a total fucking idiot and needed something special to impress you, she came around pretty quickly. She liked you a lot.’
He caught Netta’s eye and for a moment, Netta felt like she might throw herself at him then and there.
She cleared her throat and broke the spell. ‘Wine?’
‘Yes, please.’ Mo tugged at the unbuttoned top of his shirt, wafting it in and out to fan himself.
‘Sorry, I don’t have any air con,’ Netta said. ‘I’ll open some windows.’
Mo took a swig of the wine Netta set down in front of him. ‘I can do it.’
She pointed to her bedroom door. ‘If you open the ones in my room, we’ll get a bit of a breeze through here.’
The sight of Mo in her bedroom was almost too much for Netta to bear.
The temptation to follow him in and let dinner go to hell was Herculean.
She gripped the countertop and tipped her piss-poor, buzz-free excuse for wine into her mouth, her cheeks expanding to balloons before she punched it down in one gulp.
She watched as Mo leaned against her bed, inspecting the windows.
‘There’s a weird latch thing,’ she called.