Page 146 of Muddy Messy Love

“He’s opened a firm in Brighton, but it’s the polar opposite of Benedict’s—small, humble, and full of pure intentions. He’s flying solo but gets to help people that deserve it now. He even donates his time to domestic violence victims and does pro bono.”

A rush of sparkly glitter goo wraps me in a hug.Hello, old friend. It’s been a while.“That’s amazing,” I concede.

Hannah rolls her eyes. “I think he’s vying for sainthood or something. Oh”—she slaps the bench, clearly having perked back up—“and he’s taking photos again. I pestered him until he dusted off that old camera just to shut me up.”

I chuckle. “He’ll do anything for you, won’t he?”

Hannah grins. “He’ll do the same for you if you let him.”

The doorbell rings. “Excuse me a sec.” I hop off my stool and return to the shop to find two hipster dudes, complete with man buns and baggy stonewash denim jackets, checking out Leo’s furniture. I flash them a friendly smile. “Hi, welcome. Feel free to have a look around and sing out if you need any help.” They thank me and continue perusing.

Hannah appears with Ella perched back on her hip, Ella’s small, chubby hands now damp but clean. “You’re busy, so we’ll get out of your hair,” Hannah says with a lopsided smile, her earlier frostiness a distant memory. “It was great to see you, Aves. No matter what, don’t be a stranger, okay?”

I wrap them both in a hug. “I’m sorry I ever was.” Releasing them, I swipe a business card from the counter and pass it to Hannah so she has my new mobile number. I debate whether to ask she keep it hidden from Cole, but the words don’t come. Instead, I say, “We should do lunch sometime.”

She winks. “I’m holding you to that.”

“Good.” I kiss Ella on the top of her head, curling a feather-soft pigtail around my finger before letting it go. “Bye-bye, princess. I’ll take care of your fairy for you.” By “take care,” I mean I’ll cook it in a fiery kiln and hope it doesn’t explode from the air bubbles undoubtably trapped inside it, but I can’t exactly tell her that.

Ella’s face lights up. “It’s for you. For your birthday party.”

“Oh.” I hold back a laugh. My birthday’s still five months away, and there will be no party—no court will be special enough—but Ella’s birthday was last month if I remember right, and obviously it left an impression. “Thank you. I love it.”

She grins a mini Hannah grin while her mum flashes the full-sized version, and I watch as they walk out the door and past myfront window, trying to ignore the gaping hole I’m left with. It weeps a fuddle of pain, conflict, and confusion.

What the fuck am I meant to do now?

And that’s the question that consumes me for the rest of the never-ending day as I try in vain to distract myself by starting a new piece. Trust is a fundamental building block of any good relationship, and Cole lied to me. It might have started small and vague and more of an omission, but boy did it snowball. Why didn’t he just tell me? I don’t buy this client-privilege, legacy bullshit. It’s not reason enough.

He tried to, Aves. Even with everything at stake.

The dull, watery memory sharpens. Oh God. He did too. That night we snuggled at the foot of the fire, blanketed by stars. But when I sensed his turmoil, I hushed him. I convinced him, as well as myself, that I only needed to know his now. Guess I lied too. Still, he should have persisted—gagged me if necessary. Then again, I probably would have enjoyed that. And, if I’m being honest, I’m glad I got that magical time before my life blew up.

As evening peak hour descends, the traffic builds, and the sun drops behind the parapet rooftops across the road. I drag my open sign in from the footpath, smiling at the florist next door who’s doing the same. The psychology rooms still have their sign out, I notice, but it calls to me stronger now than ever. I guess my conversation with Hannah was the last nudge needed.

I lock up my shop, leaving the lights on and the roller shutter up to capitalise on the traffic jam, and ten minutes later, I’ve booked in my first therapy session with a Dr. Rachel Carmichael. No longer do I see getting help as weak. God knows Hannah is anything but that. And why should mental illness be treated any differently from the physical? When I broke my arm, I didn’t debate whether to see a doctor. I wasn’t ashamed my bones cracked or that I fell. If anything, seeking help takes guts, andI’m ready to work through my baggage. Dad’s death. Sheila’s toxicity. Thomas’s arseholery. But ultimately my fear—the ever-present tyrant that loves to captain my ship. I want to heal and be able to love without anything contaminating the flow.

Again, I think of Cole. Maybe he needs to heal too. Maybe his trauma contaminated his flow. Maybe he deserves a second chance. Doesn’t everyone? He was adamant I did.

As that last thought marinates, I’m pulled towards the stairs by some invisible but persistent force. I frown but then swallow when I remember.

His letter.I need to find Cole’s letter.

Thirty

Rumpled clothes and emptycardboard boxes cover my bedroom floor, bed, and sad-arse vinyl couch squished in the corner, leaving me cursing all previous thrift shop adventures, but I know the letter’s here somewhere. I remember slipping it down the side of a box, only I didn’t bother noting its label or size. A fact I now regret, since I’m down to the last one and my room’s a bomb site. A knot forms in my throat. Panic. Desperation. Please be in here.Please.

I plonk the last box on the end of my bed, rip open the flaps, and tip it upside down. The contents clatter to the mattress in a jumbled mess, but I don’t care because I spot the envelope, thank God. I inhale a sharp breath, grab it with greedy hands, then sit on the edge of my lumpy mattress, staring at it—holding it like it contains the sole key to my future, and maybe it does. It’s certainly thick enough.

The wordAngelstill graces the front, looped in blue cursive prettier than any man should have, but now the thought ofactually opening it freaks me the fuck out. I still don’t know if I can do this. What if it’s more bad news—more deception—or, even worse, a goodbye? My old fears return in a rush, along with a shiny new one.

What if I’m faced with forgiveness?

I shake my head. I’m jumping the gun. For all I know, this envelope contains papers related to my former employment or good behaviour bond and nothing more. A tear splats on the front, blurring the letterA. I wipe it away, but only smudge it worse.

You’ve got this, Aves. You’re strong. Independent. Planted in a field of flowers now, remember?

I close my eyes, feeling a warm flourish of gratitude for that new, kind little voice that always has my back. She’s right. I’m all those things now. So I rip out the pages and read.

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