Page 39 of Isn’t It Nice We Both Hate the Same Things

CHAPTER THIRTY

A week later, I fly interstate to visit Genevieve and we hug in the airport terminal for ten minutes, maybe more. She rotates her body to the side because she really is big now and we no longer fit together quite so easily.

‘Hi there.’ I glance down at her stomach. Genevieve is wearing a loose fitted linen dress – high neck, sleeveless, oat-coloured – and sandy-toned sandals fit for a Messiah.

‘I told you I was going to have a giant baby.’

She’s right. Her baby is going to be monstrous. ‘How many times has someone asked if you’re having twins?’

‘Every fucking day.’ She runs a hand over her hair, which is brushed back into a low bun. As expected, it’s battling the humidity, little strays poking out at all angles.

‘She’s going to walk out of there,’ I say.

‘Bruce keeps joking she’ll have a boxy head.’

‘She’s going to be gorgeous.’

That silences her, quells her fears. She nods, smiles, and then pulls me in for a hug again.

She seems much happier than when we spoke on the phone last weekend.

I certainly felt that it was my duty this week to check in on her every day – to tell her I love her, to plan my visit.

Perhaps, selfishly, a small part of me is hoping she’ll miss her old life so much she might eventually come back.

Maybe part of me is using this weekend to see if I need to intervene – redirect her back home.

Resume my endeavours of finding her and Bruce a place in the city they love.

It is early evening by the time we arrive at their new house – a two-storey white brick home, with a black garage door and charcoal plantation shutters across the front.

The first thing I notice when Genevieve pulls up in the driveway is the cherry tree in the centre of the front yard, striking in its size.

The branches, bare, indicate it’s been some time since they last flowered.

‘We’re here,’ she says.

As she walks around to the front of the car, I take another look at her bump, because she’s grown so much since I last saw her and this is everything she wanted – family, children, a home. It’s bittersweet to witness it now. I feel incredible pride.

Once inside, she is excited to tell me about her new cashmere runner rug, and the low-lying linen beanbag that rests at the end of the hallway. And the terrazzo side table nestled to its right.

‘How good does it look?’ she says, admiringly. ‘Bought everything at the local markets from a woman who makes ceramics in her basement. And then she invited me to join her pottery class.’

‘You’ve started pottery?’ I ask, hiding how that makes me feel. Slowly, over time, we are learning to live apart. I realise I am not learning new information about her as it happens but, instead, weeks after the fact.

She holds up two fingers. ‘Only gone twice, but I like it. Tried to bring Bruce but it’s not really his thing.’

Speaking of Bruce, he materialises at the top of the stairs with a wave. ‘Charlie!’

‘Bruce.’

He has not changed at all – same towering, stocky body, encased in linen shorts and a cotton shirt. Once he’s descended, we come together in a hug and he squeezes me tight, rocks me side to side like he always does. ‘It’s good to see you,’ he says.

‘You too.’

He disappears to grab my bags from the car, and only now do I notice the grey floorboards beneath me. I’m not sure why, but when she described the house, I imagined white tiles.

Perhaps I stare too long, because Genevieve points downward. ‘Burnt gum. Like a brown and a grey, mixed together. Different, don’t you think?’ Then she points to the plantation shutters, which are white on the inside of the house. ‘These are my favourite.’

Of all the properties we viewed back home, nothing was as nice as this.

Not even close. It’s open, with stretched ceilings and draping sheer curtains.

It’s homely, with a spotted gum staircase and floor lamps in corners.

She’s decorated it how she always imagined, too – shades of beige, olive green and brown.

Jute rugs in the living room and dining area. Photos framed and rested atop cabinets.

In the kitchen, she’s got a marble benchtop island – she’s always wanted one of those. Always commented on them, when someone else owned them. Once told me they look chic and expensive.

I grab her hand. ‘You did good. This place is beautiful.’ And you are beautiful in it, I want to say.

‘I can’t believe you’re here.’

Beside us, back in the hallway, there are at least six cupboards for storage. I run my hand over the varnished door, then search for the sofa again and clock how big it is. Triple the size of the last one. ‘Makes you realise how small the old place was. Bet you don’t miss it.’

She holds my gaze. ‘I miss it all the time.’

Outside, with a cheeseboard, we sink into her new outdoor furniture – navy, six-seater, wooden benches attached to the sides for drinks. I glance out over the yard, with its plush green grass stretched far, and palm trees lining the edges.

‘Tell me everything I’ve missed,’ she says, tipping her head back and letting the breeze fan her face. Beside her, Bruce cradles a tea.

‘You’ve missed nothing.’

‘I was trying not to message too much,’ she says, averting my gaze. ‘Thought it might annoy you.’

‘Why would you think that?’

Bruce places a delicate hand on her thigh. They glance at each other, and something is mutually understood, and then he rises. ‘I’m going to lie down for a while. I’m not feeling too well.’

And then he’s gone, and it’s just me and Genevieve.

I take another look at the bump. After watching her struggle for so many years to fall pregnant, it’s near impossible to look away.

‘I’m still terrified,’ she says, catching me looking. ‘Not sure that will go away until the baby arrives.’

‘Not sure that will go away even when the baby is here.’ Then, looking up, I say, ‘You scared me last weekend.’

She nods. ‘I know.’

‘It’s okay to love it here.’

‘I’m worried I shouldn’t have done this. I don’t want to feel like this was a mistake.’ As Genevieve tears up, she presses her fingers to the corners of her eyes to try and stop them falling. I slap her hand away. She’s always been someone who has tried to hide their vulnerability.

‘You tried so hard to find us somewhere,’ she says.

‘So?’

‘And I left you.’

‘So? Genevieve, look where we’re sitting—’ I gesture around me, swivel in the chair.

Then reach over and place my hands on her stomach.

‘—look what you’ve got. I am not upset with you.

I am not mad at you. I miss you, and I wish I could still see you but do not feel bad for living here if that’s what you want. ’

She tries to brush off her tears and I slap her hand away again. ‘Stop.’

‘It’s been hard,’ she says.

‘I know.’

‘I don’t know many people. But I love Bruce, and my parents. And I love this house. And I love you— ’

‘And I’m one flight away.’ I grab at her hand, clutch it tight in my fist. ‘You need me, you call me.’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

She nods furiously, letting tears fall down her cheeks. And this time, I reach over and swipe them off her cheeks for her. Cradle her face in my hands, and say, ‘Now tell me what you love about being here.’

She smiles. ‘It’s warmer,’ she starts. ‘And there are markets at the end of our street. And the neighbours are all friendly. They invite us over for dinner every month. And—’ She stops herself, works to collect her thoughts.

Then, finishing, she says, ‘And I can see this being a really great place for a child.’

A really great place for a child .

It’s quietly devastating to hear. In the back of my mind, I’d hoped there might be a possibility that she and Bruce would move back at some point. Perhaps in a few years. But she can see a future here, for her family, and that changes things.

‘And I really want a dog,’ she says.

‘A puppy and a baby?’

‘Yeah.’ She spits out a laugh. ‘A great, big fluffy German Shepherd that I want to call Sheriff. I looked on Google and apparently dogs reduce stress and increase life expectancy.’

‘Did dogs tell Google that?’

She slaps my arm, laughing. A little cackle of a laugh that has me smiling.

And it feels so good to hear her laugh like this – to see her happy.

As much as it pains me, because I’d love her back in my life, things are going to be different now and there’s nothing I can do about it. As I sit here, I know.

She’s never coming back.

‘I’m happy for you. You know that, right?’ Now it’s my turn to choke up, and she reaches for me.

She knows I’m struggling. Can sense it. Pulls me into a hug, resting her head on my shoulder like she would always do at home.

I say, ‘You don’t need this, not at all. But you have my permission to be happy here.’