Page 90 of Special Delivery
‘Poppy,’ Henry begged. ‘Please, my bag is up there. At least buzz me up so I can grab it.’
‘No!’ She was irrational now. ‘You’re a big boy. You can sort it out.’
From her bedroom she could hear Patrick calling to her. She stuck her head out the window and saw Henry near her front door. In his boots and checked shirt, he looked so naively country. Normally she found it endearing, but tonight she found it embarrassing. She grabbed his R.M. Williams carryall from the couch and yelled to him, ‘Henry, catch!’ She tipped his bag unceremoniously through the window and watched it hurtle through the air, landing with a muffled thud on the hedge below. Henry looked up at her and in one split-second she saw the confusion, the disbelief and then the hurt. From her bedroom, Patrick was calling more loudly. Poppy slammed the window shut and pushed Henry from her mind. She would call him in the morning and smooth it over. He had plenty of other friends in Sydney; he would find somewhere to sleep. It would be fine.
But she didn’t call him in the morning. Patrick stayed over and they went out for bloody marys and then gatecrashed a harbour cruise. She didn’t get home—or sober up—for another twenty-four hours. By that time, Henry was already in a different hemisphere. Poppy decided she needed to call at the right time, probably when it wasn’t morning for him. Then she decided she’d better call when it wasn’t Monday. Or when it wasn’t a weekday, or when it wasn’t a Saturday, and she probably shouldn’t call at night because he might be working late or recuperating after a busy day. And suddenly, weeks had gone by and she hadn’t called him. And then weeks became months and Henry never called either. Her shame intensified whenever she remembered that night—and the flashbacks occurred with alarming regularity—but, she reasoned, how would she apologise to himand then explain that she and pink-hat guy had become a thing? Better to wait for him to reach out, when he was ready. But he never did. And suddenly, nine years had passed. She could still remember every line and freckle on Henry’s face, how his eyes creased when he smiled, how his hugs smelled warm and comforting, like cinnamon. But they were just memories now—no more solid than the wind on her face.
Through those nine years, a thought often poked its way up and she’d clamp it back down and ignore it, but it was persistent, like a weed wriggling through the soil.Had she lost a soul mate?When she opened that window, did she not only throw out a bag, but throw out years of friendship and love? Did she throw out a future? She stayed with Patrick because the alternative was terrifying. To break up with Patrick would be to admit she’d made a horrible, unforgivable mistake and destroyed a relationship she valued more than any other. And she kept promising herself:One day I’ll apologise, one day I’ll make this right.
‘Henry,’ she said now. ‘What I did that night was horrible, and that I never apologised is unforgivable. I’ve thought about apologising so many times and I’ve never been brave enough to do it, but now … well, I’m trying to be brave. I’m sorry, Henry—for everything, but I’m especially sorry for the last ten years. You’ve never stopped being one of my favourite people. I was just too selfish and scared to admit it.’
Henry tugged at his collar, his eyes downcast. ‘I missed you like crazy for months, Pops. Maybe years. And I hated that fucking guy so fucking much. I thought I’d got over it, but then seeing you again this year, I thought maybe I hadn’t …’
‘Henry, please—’
‘No, I need to say this too,’ Henry interrupted. ‘You broke my heart, Poppy. I know we weren’t even together, but it killed me when you did that. I was as broken as that stupid bottle of cologne that smashed in my bag. But it was my fault too. We were young and we loved each other but we were too dumb and proud to commit to anything. I had so many chances to tell you how I felt but I never did. We were so obsessed with having fun, we ruined any chance of turning what we had into something real, something that would last.’ Henry’s voice sounded heavier than she’d ever heard it. She wanted to take his hand but she knew she couldn’t. ‘And then I met Willa and I realised I could find someone just as amazing—not the same kind of amazing but a different kind. Someone who is amazing for who I am now, not the person I was when I was sixteen. She makes me feel so happy and alive and …’ His voice broke. ‘Fuck, Pops. She said it wasn’t working but I don’t understand. My life only works when I’m with her. How have I stuffed this up again? Am I fucking cursed? Or just dumb as dog shit?’
Poppy bit her lip, a smile twitching at her mouth despite the tears clouding her eyes. ‘Maybe both?’
Henry shook his head and smiled weakly. ‘Friends?’ he asked, proffering his hand. ‘I don’t want to waste another ten years.’
‘Friends,’ agreed Poppy, shaking it. ‘I couldn’t stand to lose you again, Hen. It was making me feel sick thinking we’d ruined everything.’
He smiled. ‘Same.’
They both looked at Maeve, her curious face a welcome distraction from all these complicated feelings.
‘So,’ Poppy said eventually, ‘do you need some help winning back a certain paediatrician?’
Henry’s ears reddened but his eyes lifted to meet hers. ‘Thank goodness, Pops. I thought you’d never ask.’
For the next twenty minutes, as Maeve chewed her way through two teething rusks, Poppy asked all the questions about Willa she’d been dying to ask for months. How they met (through mutual friends), their first date (the zoo), when they moved in together (after thirteen months), what her family was like (quiet, smart, extremely competitive in theGood Weekendquiz).
By the time Poppy had weaselled a full recap of their first date out of Henry (the zoo being an unusually bold choice for him), Poppy felt herself becoming enchanted by Willa too. She was beautiful, she was intelligent, she donated money to the orangutans and her quiet equanimity was the perfect foil to Henry’s gregariousness. For Henry, she was perfect. Which begged the question: ‘Why didshefall in love withyou?’
Henry groaned. ‘I don’t know. Because I’m funny?’
‘Lots of people are funny.’
‘I’m a good bloke?’
‘My postman is a good bloke.’
Henry put his head in his hands. ‘Maybe it’s not something we can put into words. It’s just a feeling. Like, we just clicked. She’s clever and kind and witty, and I … I dunno, I balanced her. Like, when she got anxious, I could calm her down. When she was sad, I could cheer her up. When she wasdrowning in work, I was the one who’d make her come up for air, be spontaneous.’
And then it dawned on him.
‘Oh.’
‘Yep.’
‘Do you think …?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’ve been too obsessed with the business? I didn’t make enough time for her?’ The last question lingered unsaid:Do you think I spent too much time with you?
‘Yes to all of the above, Marshall. But the positive news is, it’s not too late.’
