I think of Christa in the next room. Asleep. Safe enough to rest without bracing herself.
“I don’t know what she wants,” I admit.
Mum’s voice softens. “Then you listen. The way you already are. That’s why she’s here.”
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. Brief. Firm. Entirely her.
“You don’t need all the answers,” she says. “But don’t talk yourself out of what’s right in front of you.”
She sits back, her business concluded, and lifts her mug.
“Now,” she adds briskly, “drink your tea before it goes cold. And, when Christa wakes up, make sure she eats something sensible.”
“Yes, Mum.”
Somehow, she’s always known exactly when to interfere.
And exactly when to stop.
34
Least Seductive Phrasing Available in the English Language
Christa
Iwake up chokingon air.
My heart is racing like it’s trying to escape my chest, skin prickling, duvet twisted around my legs. For a few seconds, I don’t know where I am. The room feels too small. Too quiet. My hands shake when I press them to my stomach, grounding myself in the solid, undeniable curve of it.
The baby kicks. Once. Sharp and real.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
It was a dream. Just a dream.
But the feeling clings. Thick. Heavy. The kind that doesn’t evaporate just because you’re awake now.
I sit up, breathing slowly, counting in my head the way I’ve been told to. In for four. Out for six. Again. And again.
It doesn’t help.
The thought of being alone in this room feels unbearable. The thought of lying back down even worse.
So I get up.
I pad across the flat, bare feet silent on the floor, moving on instinct rather than logic. I don’t knock. I don’t think. I just push open Geoff’s door and slip inside like this is already allowed.
He stirs as soon as I touch the bed.
“Christa?” His voice is thick with sleep, already reaching for me. “What’s wrong?”
I crawl under the duvet and curl into him, pressing my forehead against his chest, wrapping myself around the steady warmth of him like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the room.
He doesn’t hesitate. One arm comes around my shoulders, the other settling over my back, holding without squeezing, breathing slow and even like he’s lending me his calm.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
My chest aches at how easily he says it.
