Her body had felt foreign since the miscarriage but, four weeks later, things were gradually starting to feel closer to normal. She’d stopped crying as much. Her stomach wasn’t as bloated. The ache in her heart hadn’t dulled, but it had been joined by a sense of determination; the grief she felt at losing the baby told her how much having a child mattered to her. That feeling was propelling her towards doing it on her own, and she didn’t want to leave it any longer. She’d had an appointment with the GP and there was an action plan in place. She’d taken to thinking that the lost baby had been sent to steel her, to prepare her and give her the push she needed to take matters into her own hands. To strip away the distractions, to help her stop treading water and just go for what she wanted.
A couple walked past her, intertwined so naturally they looked like they’d been made for each other. The man’s easy stride and dark hair reminded Netta of Mo and, as was wont to happen, he leapt into her mind. The way his cheek dimpled when he smiled. His one crooked tooth. The sound of his voice, rough and molten all at once. The way it had felt to be held against him. The complete peace she’d felt with her head on his chest.
The couple disappeared around the corner and Netta sighed. Mo had been everything she needed and everything she didn’t in one irresistible, heartbreaking package. The song he’d sent still played in her mind, his words like smoke, curling around her thoughts, giving new dimension to her memories of him. New fuel to the fantasy. She’d wanted to answer his calls, so much. But she needed to stay blinkered. Eyes forward. No distractions. No diversions.
She reached her apartment building and stopped to look up at her bedroom windows, the soft glow of her bedside lamps illuminating them against the dark of the night, welcoming her home.
She gathered her gift bags to her chest to avoid smacking them against the bins as she walked up the side path to the L-shaped external staircase.
Something felt off as she started her ascent and her senses sprang to life. She noticed a soft glow emanating from somewhere near her front door. Something scuffed against the concrete. Netta stopped mid-step, her knuckles white as she gripped the gift bags.
‘Is someone there?’
The light disappeared.
A cough.
More scuffling.
Footsteps.
Netta was rooted to the spot, at the mercy of fate, both fight and flight leaving her for dead. Of course she would get mugged or murdered on her fortieth birthday. Of course she would.
A shadowy figure rose from the top landing. Broad shoulders. Tall.
Netta opened her mouth and released a voiceless scream for help, and the man stepped out of view, descending the stairs.
This is it. This is how I die.
Netta squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath, her heart on pause as though practising for death.
‘Netta?’ The voice was low. Rough.
Her eyes snapped open. ‘Mo?’ Her knees liquified and she sank to the cool concrete of the steps.
‘Fuck, I’m so sorry.’ He descended the steps two at a time to help her up. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
Netta shoved his arm away. ‘You scared the absolute shit out of me!’ She breathed hard as her heart went into overdrive, her head swimming with adrenalin and shock. ‘I thought you were a murderer.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he repeated. ‘It was supposed to be a surprise but you weren’t home and I—’
‘Thought you’d loiter on my doorstep and give me a fucking heart attack instead?’ Netta gathered up the bags up and stood.
‘Can you two take it inside?’ Netta’s elderly downstairs neighbour’s voice floated through his window. ‘Some of us are trying to sleep.’
Netta took in Mo’s flight-weary face and rumpled outfit and sighed. ‘You’d better come in.’
He stood aside as she made her way to the front door, her fingers trembling as she brought the key to the lock, every cell of her body aware of him standing behind her. The key finally turned and the door swung open.
Netta went inside. ‘Come in.’
Mo entered silently, holding a gift-wrapped box. Netta’s heels clip-clopped along the hallway to the kitchen, Mo’s Converse trailing quietly behind.
She walked behind the kitchen bench, dumped her bags on the worn Laminex and spun slowly to face him. She drank him in. His blue jeans, his soft grey T-shirt, the tattoos scattered over his arms. His muscles were taut with apprehension as he leaned against her dining table and clutched the present. His hair was mussed and his jaw was stubbled, his face arranged into an unfamiliar expression.
‘What are you doing here?’ Netta said.
‘I wanted to give you this.’ He held the box out to her. ‘For your birthday.’
