Numbered

by Amy Andrews

  She sighed against his chest, and it gave him goosebumps. ‘You make me happy.’

  ‘I want to make you happy for all the time you have, Poppy,’ he said, cupping her face, which was ethereal and perfect in the moonlight. ‘The way you make me happy. There is no happiness without you. I don’t care about what’s next. I love you.’

  He squeezed her hard as she froze in his arms.

  ‘Marry me.’

  * * *

  The dawn was breaking as the old bus sputtered up the hill and lurched towards the stop. Quentin looked up and watched pink colour the sky over the guesthouse. He hoped she was sleeping. He hoped she understood, that the note he’d left her had made sense. He couldn’t stay if she wouldn’t let him in. She had been very clear. She was happy, she enjoyed being with him, but she didn’t want what he was offering.

  She just didn’t see the point. And she didn’t want to hurt him.

  Quentin picked up his bag and his guitar case and stood up as the bus shuddered to a halt in front of him. His eyes were sore and scratchy from lack of sleep and his mind was a disordered mess of pain and fear. He had never, ever imagined that a girl could get to him the way Poppy Devine had. Everything about her undid him. Even the sight of her face, cold and brittle, as she’d told him she wouldn’t marry him. Her eyes had been so dark, her little chin so defiant.

  He kept replaying the scene in his mind – his chest filling with panic, his brain screaming at him that he shouldn’t have said it, that he should take it back, somehow take it back, pretend it was a joke. Make it better.

  But it was over, really over. Poppy was gone from his life, and soon she would be gone from everything. She didn’t want him as her husband, and she didn’t want him there at the end.

  ‘Delhi,’ he said to the small driver wearing a simple brown shift, handing over some notes.

  Chapter Twelve

  Julia clung to the old-fashioned strap that hung from above the window in the ancient, rattly taxi as it careened around yet another rocky, mountainous hairpin bend. Hand straps like this hadn’t been around for decades because they were as antiquated as the cars that bore them, and frankly, plain unstylish, but she thanked all the gods and angels and even the freaking Dalai Lama for it right now. If it was her lot to have chosen the world’s oldest taxi cab at least it was still in mint condition.

  And if she got any more freaked out she could turn her head and bite down on the strap like they did in the movies when someone needed a bullet removed or a leg amputated. Come to think of it, they usually had whisky, too.

  Whisky would also be handy about now.

  The car fishtailed on the rocky surface as it negotiated another corner and Julia seriously contemplated biting the strap but chose her lip instead. She’d told the driver to go as fast as he could so she could barely complain when he was following her edict to the letter. The chickens in a wire coop on the back seat, however, didn’t feel the need for such restraint. They squawked indignantly at every death-defying twist and turn that threw their flimsy cage from one side of the bench seat to the other.

  Whatever eggs they laid for the next few days were going to come well and truly pre-scrambled.

  Another car approached in the distance and Julia’s heart rate ratcheted up. She wasn’t even sure what side of the road they drove on over here but then neither, apparently, did the driver, who completely ignored such conventions, preferring to drive straight up the middle of the unsealed road.

  Although road was probably generous. Track was more like it. Goat track.

  The approaching car beeped its horn but her driver was not deterred from his path and Julia thought: This is it, I don’t have to worry about watching Poppy die because we’re going to plunge down the side of this mountain and I am going to die right here, right now. I’m going to go to the next life accompanied by an ancient taxi driver with yellow teeth and seven pissed-off chickens.

  She shut her eyes and gripped the strap hard, her driver swerving at the last second, beeping his horn and yelling something she assumed was local for fuck you out the window at the other driver.

  Julia opened her eyes, her pulse drumming in her ears, breathing hard. A rush of relief temporarily dampened the spike of adrenaline before nausea threatened. She swallowed it down. The inside of the taxi already smelled like chicken poop, feathers and cigarettes, it didn’t need vomit added to the mix.

  The driver nodded and smiled at her, his nicotine-stained teeth flashing. ‘I go fast.’ He grinned. ‘I go fast.’

  Julia nodded weakly. At least he was enjoying himself. All of her life she’d wanted to get into a taxi and say ‘follow that cab’ like they did in the movies, only to discover the experience was completely overrated.

  And it was all Ten’s fault.

  Thoughts of her impending death or disability with chickens by her side had kept her mind off her reason for rattling along a bumpy, windy road in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere (she didn’t care how freaking majestic it was, it was still the arse end of the earth), in an ancient Volvo with a yellow-toothed man, but suddenly it seemed like a far more economical use of her time.

  The precise way to castrate a man with bare hands did, after all, require some planning. Because that’s exactly what she planned to do to Ten when she finally caught up with his bus.

  Julia had woken with a start when Poppy had slid into bed with her less than an hour ago with tears sliding down her face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Julia had asked.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she’d whispered and handed Julia the note.

  And Julia had been furious. Beyond furious. She’d been white-hot-rage, blood-boiling incensed. I’m not going anywhere. Ten had told her that twice. Assured her of it. She’d shaken on a truce with him because of it.

  But when things hadn’t gone his way, when Poppy had turned him down, he’d just walked away?

  Not on her watch, he didn’t.

  ‘I’ll bring him back,’ Julia had said as she’d leapt out of bed, reaching for the first set of clothes she could find. ‘You stay right here. I’ll find him.’ She’d stuck her legs into the jeans she’d worn yesterday, thrown on a hoodie over the flannelette shirt she’d been sleeping in and was stuffing her feet into her Ugg boots because they were closest when a thought had occurred to her. ‘Wait …’ she’d said, stopping her frantic dressing for a beat. ‘You do want him back?’

  A girl could dream, right?

  And that was when Poppy’s face had crumpled and she’d curled into that ball. ‘I … love … him,’ she’d cried.

  Julia’s heart had temporarily seized in her chest both at the size of the admission and at the anguish with which it was delivered. It was wrung out of Poppy, all strangled and broken. They’d always whispered these things to each other, like they were afraid they’d jinx it if they said it too loudly.

  And that had been enough for Julia. She hadn’t looked at her face or brushed her hair. Hell, she hadn’t even stopped to put on a bra.

  ‘Stay right here,’ she’d said again as she’d pulled the bed cover up over Poppy and tucked it around her. It had seemed to swallow her whole and Julia remembered how sick the sight had made her feel. ‘He can’t have got that far.’

  And now she was here, courting death and contemplating violence in some fucked-up un-Buddha-like, unholy jumble in her head.

  ‘Bus! Bus!’

  Julia’s heart leapt as she followed the direction of one thick gnarled finger to a beat-up old bus further ahead of them. That had to be it! The manager of the guesthouse had told her that Ten had caught the bus to Delhi fifteen minutes prior to her bursting in looking like the freaking yeti. And there wasn’t another bus for three hours.

  A beam of sunlight poking through the clouds behind them caught the bus in its path, setting the yellow paint job ablaze before it disappeared around a bend, and it was as if someone up there was sending Julia a sign.

  Ten was on that bus. God was dobbing.

  ‘I go f
aster?’ the driver asked, smiling at her, his face breaking into a hundred deep ravines, excitement dancing in his keen, bright eyes.

  Julia nodded and clutched the strap tighter.

  * * *

  In ten minutes they were up the backside of the bus, and the driver was merrily beeping his horn, gesturing out the window for the bus, which looked about the same vintage as the taxi, to pull over. It lumbered to a halt a minute later.

  Julia opened her door. ‘I wait?’ the driver asked.

  She nodded and smiled at him, despite her full bitch growling just beneath the surface. Her pulse was already accelerating, spoiling for a fight. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She stalked out of the car and stormed down the side of the bus, conscious of faces staring at her from the windows. The driver opened the door and looked at her quizzically. She ignored him as she turned to face the rickety-looking vehicle. None of the faces looking at her belonged to Ten.

  Probably cowering inside somewhere. Behind a chicken coop, no doubt.

  ‘Ten!’ she yelled. Julia had always possessed very good projection and it didn’t let her down this time. It bounced straight off the side of the bus and Julia swore she could hear it echo through the valley below. ‘Get your arse out here right this second.’

  Everyone inside gaped at her, turning and looking at each other, shrugging and shaking their heads, talking quickly amongst themselves and gesturing to the crazy, white giant of a woman yelling almost loud enough to rock the entire bus.

  Nothing happened for a minute and the driver looked increasingly worried. But then there was movement from inside and seconds later Ten was stepping down from the vehicle.

  ‘Jules,’ he nodded.

  Julia did note, on some level, that Ten had the good grace to look ashamed. And also, to be fair, pretty damn wretched. But she was beyond worrying about him and his feelings. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed.

  He held up his hands. ‘It’s over, Jules. You win, you get to have her all to yourself.’

  Julia’s rage grew exponentially. Did he have one single fucking clue just how much she’d wanted Poppy all to herself? How much she hadn’t wanted his skinny football/surfer/rocker arse tagging along on their bucket-list trip? But he was here. Poppy wanted him here. She freaking loved him! And he was going to get his arse in that taxi and come back with her or she was seriously going to LOSE HER SHIT.

  ‘You have got to be fucking kidding me. Do you think this is some kind of competition?’

  He shot her an incredulous look. ‘Hasn’t it been? Hasn’t this entire thing been you and me in a sick wrestling match over her affections?’

  Julia’s harsh laugh echoed around the mountains, giving it an almost demonic quality. ‘Sweetie, your ego is writing cheques your body can’t cash. This whole thing is about Poppy. About Poppy dying. Remember? The bald, fragile woman who is right now curled up in a foetal ball in my bed. And if you think for a second that I can’t take you in a wrestling match for Poppy’s affections or any other damn thing I want, then you clearly don’t know a damn thing about me.’

  Julia was breathing erratically. She wasn’t entirely sure that statement was right anymore and she was damn sure arguing like this in the thin air wasn’t very good for them. But hell, they’d been spoiling for this fight for such a long time she had a real buzz on.

  It felt good to feel good. Even for this totally fucked-up reason.

  ‘Fine,’ he snapped. ‘You win. You can take me in a wrestling match, Jules. Poppy loves you more than me. You win.’ He clapped with feigned vigour. ‘Bravo. Give the woman a cigar.’

  Julia nodded briskly, letting his sarcasm wash off her. She didn’t care what frame of mind he was in – she just needed him to return with her. ‘Excellent.’ She zipped up her hoodie against the cold air. ‘Now get in the damn taxi and go and crawl back to Poppy. Tell her what she needs to hear or not hear, do you understand? You do whatever it is she needs.’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  Julia folded her arms. ‘Yes.’

  He walked over to the side of the road and stared down at the lush greenery in the valley below. ‘No.’

  ‘Quentin.’

  Ten turned his head, obviously shocked at the use of his name, even if she did say it in the tone of voice usually reserved for mothers who are on their last nerve with a recalcitrant child. Which was kind of how she felt.

  Unfortunately, not even the use of his real name dissuaded him. ‘I can’t do it anymore,’ he said, turning away from her to face the vista.

  Julia glared at his back and sucked in a breath, supressing the urge to tell him she was going to count to ten and he’d better be in the car or she was going to take his toys away. Sure, she could tell him that Poppy had said the L-word, but she wasn’t their intermediary. They weren’t in primary school passing love notes between desks.

  It was Poppy’s word to say and she had no idea if Poppy ever intended to say it to Ten at all. Just because she’d admitted it to Julia didn’t mean she was going to break down and let Ten in on the secret. She’d been pretty damn adamant about not saying it, after all. Not hearing it.

  But there was only one way he was going to find out and that involved him getting his arse back to the guesthouse.

  ‘Right, I see,’ she said, drawing on the strength that only yesterday His Holiness himself had told her she had in abundance, no matter how thinly stretched it felt right now. ‘So when you said to me, I’m not going anywhere, Julia – twice,’ she held up two fingers, ‘what you meant to say was as long as Poppy plays the game my way.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ he yelled, turning to glare at her, his dirty-blond hair flaring with the movement, his eyes flashing. ‘When has she ever played the game my way? Don’t say it, Q,’ he mimicked. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t talk about your feelings. Don’t tell me how you feel. Don’t say you …’

  His voice cracked and his eyes were suddenly glassy and anguished as well as pissed off, packing an extra gut-wrenching punch.

  ‘Don’t say you love me, Q. Jump out of a plane with me, watch me dive with sharks, let me sing with you on stage but don’t ask me to marry you. We don’t need the words.’ He raked a hand through his hair. ‘Just don’t say it, Q.’

  Julia swallowed at the defeat in every line of his body. He was a tall guy and she was used to him swaggering around, but standing here in the majesty of the mountains, he looked small. Everyone did, she guessed, but this was different. He looked crushed. Completely and utterly beaten.

  ‘Jesus, Ten,’ she muttered. ‘Does it really matter that freaking much?’

  ‘Yes,’ he yelled, the veins in his neck sticking out and it echoed around and around and around. ‘Yes it fucking does. How would you like it if she didn’t let you tell her? If she wouldn’t accept your love? If she rejected it?’

  Julia blinked at the force of his anger. They were several metres apart but it almost knocked her on her butt. His anguished questions tore at the very fabric of her heart.

  She would hate it. To be rejected by Poppy in her final weeks on this earth would be gutting. One thing she’d always been able to count on since she was eleven years old was the depth of their devotion, the intensity of their friendship. And while neither of them went around spouting their love for each other every minute of the day, Julia doubted she’d ever recover if Poppy forbade her from expressing it at all.

  ‘Look, you’re right, it doesn’t matter,’ he said, his shoulders sagging, waving his hand at her dismissively. ‘She doesn’t need me anyway. She’s got you.’

  Julia’s anger flared again. Yeah, Poppy had her. But she wanted him, too. Didn’t the sonofabitch realise how privileged he was? Up until recently it had been Poppy and Julia against the world. Now he’d been allowed into the inner sanctum. And that was a one-way street. It had been since Dr Dick had looked across at them and said the C word. You didn’t get to back out of the sanctum.

  ‘Oh I see,’ she reto
rted. ‘We’re getting to the pointy end now. That’s it, isn’t it? And this is just a convenient out so you don’t have to be there at the end because while you’re man enough to do the easy stuff, to tell her you love her and want to marry her, you’re not man enough for the hard yards, you’re not man enough to watch her die.’

  ‘Oh you’re kidding me?’ he hissed. ‘What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing these last eight months, Jules? We’ve both been watching her die.’

  Hot tears burned the back of her eyes. Did he think she didn’t know that? The thought of it had been like knives stabbing into her heart for every single day of it. ‘That’s been the easy bit,’ she threw back at him. ‘The hardest part will be being there for the moment she takes her last breath.’

  Julia hated that fucking day already.

  Ten gaped at her then his face twisted into a grotesque half-laugh, half-snort. He shook his head at her in what looked suspiciously like pity. ‘Is that what you think? Oh no, Poppy has got plans for that day that don’t not include me or you. You need to rethink that one, Jules, because she doesn’t want anyone there for that.’

  If Ten had reached across and slapped her, Julia could not have been more stunned. She looked at him, not quite able to even comprehend what he’d said. But the knowledge was out there now – thrown like a stone over the side of the mountain, freefalling in the abyss, as her brain scrambled to catch up.

  It seemed to take forever to hit rock bottom.

  ‘What?’ she gasped finally. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  This time it was definitely pity she saw on his face. ‘I’m sorry, Jules. Poppy told me yesterday, before she saw His Holiness. She’s going solo on that one.’

  Julia stared at him, her mouth agape. What? No.

  No. No. No.

  That couldn’t be right. She searched his face for any signs of disingenuousness and found none. Only sad, hollow eyes.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, breathing in and out quickly to try to dispel the notion with each expiration. ‘She … can’t. I won’t … let her. What if she’s s-scared?’ Hot tears filled her eyes and spilled down her face. She couldn’t bear the thought of Poppy all alone at the end. It was too … too everything. She breathed some more, pushing it away, trying to breathe the thought out of her body. ‘What if she … panics? She needs to be surrounded by people who love her at the end. She needs to go knowing she was … l-loved.’