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 toI love you, Nettaand lingered, the wordsI love you, tooalready 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.’
