Chapter 17
Pea-Lime Punishment
Geoff
The pub is already busy when I get there, which immediately puts it in my good books. Busy means no spotlight. No awkward empty-room energy. Just people minding their own business and not noticing the tall man hovering by the door like he’s waiting for instructions.
Sophia is easy to spot. Small table by the window, coat off, phone face down, glass of white wine already on the go. She looks up, smiles, and stands like this is the most natural thing in the world and not a scenario my brain has been rehearsing for forty-eight hours.
“Hi,” she says. “You made it.”
“I did,” I say. “I’d like credit for not getting lost.”
She laughs. That’s encouraging. Laughter is good. Laughter means I haven’t said anything actively alarming yet.
We sit. I gesture vaguely at her glass.
“Another?”
“Yes, please. Sauvignon Blanc.”
Simple. Clear. Bless her.
I head to the bar and return with her wine and my pint, managing not to spill anything, knock into anyone, or announce that this is a first date and I’m trying very hard. I sit back down and feel like I’ve passed a low-level exam.
She asks how my day’s been and I have to actively stop myself from answering with a detailed emotional status update.
“Good,” I say. “Fairly uneventful. And I’m learning to appreciate that.”
“That sounds healthy,” she says.
Christa would call that growth and then immediately ruin it by pointing out something else I’m doing wrong.
Sophia tells me about her work, charity comms, and a meeting that should have been an email... an email that absolutely should not have been sent on a Friday. I listen and nod at the right points, relieved to discover that my face still knows how to do that without instruction.
When she asks what I do, I feel the usual split second where my brain tries to decide which version of myself to present. The glamorous one. The retired one. The quietly panicking one.
“I used to travel a lot for work,” I say. “Photography. I teach a bit now.”
She tilts her head. “Do you miss it?”
I consider lying. I consider oversharing. I land somewhere in the middle.
“Some of it,” I say. “Mostly I miss being able to say I’m very busy and sound important.”
That gets a real laugh out of her.
“That’s honest,” she says.
Excellent. Honesty without consequences. Big fan.
Food arrives in the form of chips that are far too hot and therefore immediately necessary. We both reach at the same time, pause, retreat, then reach again like we’re testing each other’s reflexes. It’s easy. Unforced. Which my brain immediately flags as suspicious.
She tells a story about a fundraiser that went sideways and pulls a face at the end that makes me laugh before I’ve had time to decide if laughing is appropriate. Apparently it is.
“You’re very easy to talk to,” she says, somewhere between chips.
I nearly choke.
“Oh,” I say, buying myself a second with my pint. “That’s new.”
She grins. “Is it?”
“Yes,” I say. “Historically I either talk too much or disappear entirely. This feels like progress.”
“I’ll take progress,” she replies.
Christa would absolutely take progress. She’d also write it on a whiteboard and underline it.
The conversation keeps moving. Music we pretend not to judge people for liking. Places we’ve been that were better in theory. People-watching that edges dangerously close to being unkind but never quite gets there.
And then something odd happens.
I notice that I’m not performing.
I’m not trying to steer the conversation anywhere. I’m not calculating when to lean in or pull back. I’m not wondering if this is the moment I’m supposed to do something.
I’m just… here.
This should feel like a relief. Instead, it feels like when a noise you didn’t realise was annoying suddenly stops and you become very aware of the silence.
We finish our drinks and step outside into the cooler air. She tucks her hands into her sleeves and looks up at me.
“I’m glad we did this,” she says. “I’d like to do it again.”
There it is. The moment.
I look at her, really look at her, and my brain does a quick inventory. She’s lovely. Funny. Easy. Sensible in a way that doesn’t feel dull.
And yet.
Nothing in me leans forward.
“I’d like that,” I say, because it’s true in a broad, theoretical sense. Somewhere, some version of me would.
We hug. Brief. Comfortable. The sort of hug that doesn’t linger or promise anything it can’t deliver. She walks off, glancing back once with a small wave before disappearing down the street.
I stand there for a moment, hands in my pockets, waiting for the familiar aftershock. The second-guessing. The urge to replay the evening and see what I missed.
It doesn’t come.
What comes instead is the quiet understanding that this date has done exactly what it was meant to do. It’s shown me I can sit across from someone lovely, enjoy myself, behave like a functional adult, and still feel that unmistakable absence.
Not dread. Not disappointment.
Just clarity.
I start walking home, oddly light for someone who’s just had a perfectly good date.
Nice evening. Good woman.
What more can I ask for?
I get home to the unsettling quiet that suggests Christa has been left alone with her thoughts.
She’s on the sofa, curled slightly to one side, an apple in her hand. She’s nibbling at it like it’s personally betrayed her. Small, suspicious bites. The look on her face suggests the apple has poisoned several people she loved and she’s only eating it under protest.
I stop in the doorway.
“Why are you eating that like it’s radioactive?”
She glares at the apple, then at me. “Because it’s a liar.”
“That’s a strong accusation for fruit.”
She takes another resentful bite and chews like she’s being paid by the hour. “Mean Pea-Lime wants more crumpets.”
“Pea-Lime,” I repeat. “Naturally.”
She exhales heavily and slumps further into the sofa. “But I cannot turn into a full-time crumpet monster for the next five months, no matter how strong the calling.”
“That sounds like admirable restraint,” I say, toeing off my shoes.
“It is,” she says. “Heroic, frankly. So Pea-Lime has to learn to eat fruit.”
She holds the apple up like it’s Exhibit A. “This is Pea-Lime’s punishment.”
I drop down beside her. “You do like apples.”
“I like apples when they’re not impersonating buttered bread products,” she says. “This one knows exactly what it’s replacing.”
She takes another bite, scowls, then sighs. “I miss your crumpets.”
Something in my chest does a stupid, unnecessary little flip.
“I can make more tomorrow for breakfast,” I say. “Emotionally supportive crumpets.”
Her face lights up immediately. “For Pea-Lime?”
“For Pea-Lime,” I confirm.
She relaxes back into the cushions and takes a slightly less hostile bite of the apple. “Fine. But if this child comes out with an exclusively carb-based personality, that’s on you.”
“Happy to take responsibility,” I say.
She chews thoughtfully, then glances at me. “How was your date?”
I shrug, casual. “Nice.”
She narrows her eyes. “Just nice?”
“Nice,” I repeat. “Like… apple nice. Fine. Pleasant. Not a crumpet.”
She snorts, then winces and shifts her weight and rubs her belly.
“Pea-Lime agrees with that ranking,” she says. “Crumpets are worth the consequences.”
I reach over and commit outright apple theft, taking a bite before returning it.
She gasps. “Oi. That’s Pea-Lime’s suffering.”
“Tell Pea-Lime to share,” I say, biting into it. “Builds character.”
She watches me chew, then smirks. “You look lighter.”
I pause, consider it.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I am.”
She nods, satisfied, and takes another reluctant bite of the apple.
“Still hate this,” she mutters.