“I just don’t quitegetit. Is it sci-fi or erotica?”
I smile. “Just think of it as erotic sci-fi.”
He laughs. “Aha. Knew there was a catchy term for it.”
“Well, of course. Robots need love too.”
Postwork shoppers move past us on the street. There’s a couple eating ice creams, a guy sauntering along in a T-shirt and Ray-Bans. The sight of them feels headily optimistic in a way that seems unique to spring, like birds building nests or buds becoming blossom.
“I’m sorry, Cal,” Joel says suddenly. “About earlier. I honestly... God. I handled that really badly.”
Oh, the moving-in. It was a mistake, I see that now. “No, I sprang it on you. Don’t—”
“I’ve been thinking. About what you said.” He clears his throat. “How would you feel about... moving into mine?”
My heart sprouts wings. “Into yours?”
“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love your flat, but would mine make more sense, with the garden and Murph, and...?”
I can’t hold back my grin. “Are you sure? You don’t have to—”
“I know. But this feels right.”
“It does.”
“As long as you’re cool with... you know. Everything.”
“I wouldn’t have asked you, otherwise.” Yes, I lose him first thing in the morning occasionally, to fairly intense note-taking and sequences of monosyllables. If we spend the night together, we rarely fall asleep in tandem—often he’s out with Murphy, long after I’ve gone to bed, or he simply stays up to avoid sleep. And sometimes our rest is disturbed, if a dream wakes him. But so what? No imperfection can touch how much I love him.
He dips his head now, sets his mouth close to mine. “This is all assuming you don’t secretly hate my flat, of course.”
“I secretly love it more than mine.”
“So we’re doing this?”
“We’re doing this.”
For a split second before Joel kisses me, it seems as if he wants to say something else. But as I hold my breath to hear it, his mouth meets mine and the moment moves on.
48.
Joel
Callie’s face is flecked with dirt, sprigs of hair poking free from her ponytail. She’s leaning against me on the sofa, warmly content at the end of a sun-filled day at Waterfen. I’m happy for her, after so many weeks spent weighed down by winter. Fingers frozen, clothes clotted with mud. Not that she ever complained.
Beyond the window, the Friday night light is vacating the sky.
Murphy has rested his chin on my sister’s knee, trained his eyes patiently on her face. Like he knows exactly what she’s here to say.
“I’m pregnant.”
I’m on my feet straightaway, wrapping Tamsin in my arms. I hope she can’t tell that, though my joy is real, my surprise is manufactured. Because I’ve already met Harry in my dreams. Kissed his flawless forehead, wondered at his pinky newness. Felt steam-rollered by love.
“You’re the best mum I know,” I murmur into her hair. “Congratulations.”
I open an arm for Callie to join the hug. The three of us stand knitted together, laughing and wiping away tears.
While Callie’s getting more drinks, I ask Tamsin how far along she is. (I already know she’s around eight weeks, of course. It never stops feeling awkward—being intimate with someone else’s private information before they are.)
