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.Theyweren’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.
‘Got it.’ His shoulders strained against his shirt as he pushed the window open and replaced the sheer drape, which fluttered in the evening breeze. ‘I like this place,’ he said, looking around as he made his way back to the kitchen. ‘It’s very you.’
‘What? Old and creaky?’
‘I was thinking more along the lines of unique and beautiful.’ He pulled out a stool and sat at the bench, his index finger tracing an invisible spiral on the Laminex. ‘I really fucked up, Netta. I’m so sorry.’
