Chapter 20 Headbutted from the Inside
Headbutted from the Inside
Christa
“Now put both hands in,” I say, angling the laptop so he can see the bowl. “Yes. Both. This is not a one-finger activity.”
On my screen, a man in a beige kitchen hesitates like he’s about to disarm a bomb.
“It feels wrong,” he says.
“That’s meatloaf,” I reply. “If it felt dignified, we’d be making paté.”
He exhales, steels himself, and plunges in. Mince squelches. He winces.
Somewhere along the line, my goblin jobs have escalated from taste-testing cake for rich women to coaching a man in his fifties through comfort food for his future in-laws. This was not on any bingo card I ever filled out, but here we are.
“Breadcrumbs next,” I say. “And don’t be shy. They’re there to help you.”
He squints at the packet. “Is that… too much?”
“If you can still see the meat looking smug, no.”
He laughs, shoulders dropping as he mixes, and I talk him through seasoning, onion ratios, why overworking it turns it sad, all in the same calm voice I reserve for people who are one bad experience away from a lifetime of beige food.
“Alright,” I say eventually. “Tin. Gentle. Like you’re tucking it in.”
He does as instructed, steps back, and stares at the loaf like it might ask for feedback.
“You’ve made dinner,” I tell him.
His grin is enormous. “I have.”
“Put it in the oven before it realises,” I say.
The call ends. The kitchen goes quiet. My hands smell of onion and garlic and my stomach responds with a sharp, offended twist.
“Don’t,” I mutter, pressing my palm to it. “You know the schedule.”
From the dining table comes Geoff’s voice.
“Try again,” he says. “Slower.”
Lucy sighs. Loudly. “I can’t. I hate homework.”
“Yes, you can, and homework can be fun,” Geoff says. Not louder. Not softer. Just steady.
I glance over.
Lucy is hunched over a sheet of paper, pencil clenched like it owes her money. Geoff’s chair is turned towards her, one knee angled in, forearms resting loosely on the table. Close without crowding. Present without hovering.
She scribbles. Stops. Glares.
“That’s wrong.”
Geoff leans in slightly, studies it. “It’s different,” he says. “Different isn’t the same as wrong.”
She narrows her eyes at him. “It looks bad.”
He shrugs. “So did my handwriting until I was about twelve.”
That earns him a snort. She tries again.
He doesn’t reach for the pencil. Doesn’t correct her grip. Just waits.
I notice the quiet things. His voice stays even. His foot doesn’t bounce. His hands stay still unless she asks for help.
“There,” Lucy says finally, triumphant.
He nods. “There.”
She launches herself at him. He catches her easily, one arm around her back, the other lifting just enough to keep the pencil from becoming a weapon.
I look away a fraction too late.
Pea-Lime kicks.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “Absolutely not.”
Geoff glances up. “All good?”
“Fine,” I say too quickly. “Educational.”
Geoff’s mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite believe me, but he lets it go and turns back to Lucy. Sensible man. Self-preserving instincts intact.
I shift and press a hand to my stomach, partly to still Pea-Lime, partly to remind myself I am not allowed to spiral because a man used a calm voice and appropriate pencil supervision.
Week nineteen, I think. Not four and a half months. Not nearly halfway. Week nineteen, because Geoff read approximately seventeen books, three forums, and at least one unhinged blog written by a woman who refers to herself as MamaBear77 and now refuses to use months like a normal person.
Yesterday is still sitting in my bones.
The hospital had smelled like disinfectant and sickness, and I remember crossing my arms while Geoff hovered, offering my coat, my bag, my water bottle, my dignity.
“I’m fine,” I’d told him for the third time.
“I know,” he’d said. “I just thought you might want to sit.”
“I am sitting.”
“Right. Yes. Just checking.”
The sonographer had smiled that calm, seen-it-all smile while I’d lain there feeling like a science project, and Geoff had gone very quiet, which is what he does when he’s trying not to fuss. It never works.
“There,” she’d said, tapping the screen. “Any guesses?”
Geoff had leaned in like the answer might flee. I’d squinted, unimpressed.
“If you say boy, I will leave,” I’d warned him, mostly joking, entirely serious.
He’d grinned, nervous and soft all at once. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
The sonographer had turned the screen slightly. “You’re having a girl.”
Something in the room had shifted. Not dramatically. Just enough.
Geoff had gone still, then let out a breath like he’d been holding it since conception. “A girl,” he’d repeated, quietly, like he was testing the word for weight.
I’d snorted. “Well. That explains the attitude.”
He’d laughed, eyes bright, hand finding mine without thinking. Fussing forgotten. Or maybe concentrated. Focused.
Now, on the sofa, with Lucy and her pencil and Geoff’s steady voice, the memory presses in sideways.
Pea-Lime gives another small kick, like she’s knocking from the inside.
“I know,” I mutter. “You’ve made your point.”
Geoff glances over again, softer this time. “Everything really okay?”
He’s already on his feet as he asks it, like the question pulled him up by an invisible string. He steps closer and hesitates for half a second, that familiar Geoff pause where he checks himself, then places his hand on my stomach.
And for reasons I do not examine too closely, I don’t hate it.
I don’t tense. I don’t flinch. I don’t even make a joke.
Which is alarming.
His hand is warm, steady, not tentative, not claiming. Just there. Like this is normal. Like we do this all the time. Like my body hasn’t been a hormonal chaos factory lately with a libido that’s woken up from hibernation and decided now is the time to stretch.
Pea-Lime kicks again, sharper this time.
Geoff’s eyes widen. “That was… that was her, right?”
“Yes,” I say, breath hitching despite myself. “Congratulations. You’ve been headbutted from the inside.”
His mouth curves into a grin that he doesn’t even try to hide. “She’s strong.”
“Don’t encourage her,” I mutter. “She already has opinions.”
Lucy has been watching this with growing concern and now pads over, small brows drawn together like she’s assessing a medical emergency.
“Auntie Christa,” she says seriously. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say. “She’s just kicking.”
Lucy’s eyes light up. “Oh. Babies do that.”
“They do,” I agree.
“Samira's mummy's baby kicked so hard she did a little wee,” Lucy announces helpfully.
Geoff chokes. I snort.
“Thank you for that,” I say. “Very reassuring.”
Lucy nods, satisfied. “She might be practising football. Or karate. Or just being grumpy because she’s squished.”
Geoff laughs softly, his hand still on my stomach. “I think she’s saying hello.”
Lucy leans in, presses her ear to my bump with all the solemnity of a tiny doctor. “Hello, Baby Pea-Lime,” she whispers. “Please don’t kick too much. It’s rude.”
Pea-Lime kicks again, right on cue.
Lucy straightens. “She didn’t listen.”
“That checks out,” I say.
Geoff’s hand lingers a second longer than necessary before he pulls it back, and the absence is… noticeable. Annoyingly so.
Everything is fine, I tell myself. Normal. Domestic. Completely non-threatening.
My body, traitor that it is, does not entirely agree.
I’m perched on one of the kitchen stools with my laptop open, spreadsheet glowing accusingly back at me. Rows, columns, colour coding. Control. Order. Lies.
Pea-Lime gives a lazy roll that I ignore because, if I acknowledge every movement, I will get nothing done and also possibly cry into Excel.
Behind me, Geoff is at the hob, stirring soup with the kind of focus normally reserved for bomb disposal. He has already warmed it once, decided it wasn’t warm enough, and is now on attempt two.
“You know,” I say without looking up, “if you hover over it anymore it’s going to develop performance anxiety.”
“I just want it hot enough,” he says.
“It’s soup,” I reply. “Not a spa treatment.”
He hums, unconvinced, and reaches for a spoon to test it.
That’s when his phone rings.
He freezes. Actually freezes. Spoon mid-air. Soup simmering. Phone buzzing on the counter like it’s personally offended him.
I glance up. “You going to answer that or let it spiral into a full existential crisis?”
He looks at the screen and grimaces. “It’s my mum.”
Ah.
Mrs Corbin. The one who once tried to set him up with a woman she met at a bus stop because she ‘had kind eyes and a sensible coat’. The one who had rather strong opinions when he told her he was buying a new sofa because she thought it meant he was ‘emotionally committing to furniture’.
“Good luck,” I say cheerfully. “If she asks if you’re eating properly, lie.”
He exhales, long-suffering and fond all at once, and answers. “Hi, Mum.”
I watch him as he listens, nodding automatically, murmuring agreement like this is a call he has had many times before and will have many times again until the heat death of the universe.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Pause.
“Yes, I am eating.”
Another pause. His shoulders tense.
“No, I’m not lonely.”
I snort and go back to my spreadsheet.
He glances at me, a warning look that means behave. I smile sweetly and type aggressively.
“Mum,” he says gently, “we’ve been through this.”
Longer pause.
“No, nothing’s wrong. Why would something be wrong?”
He closes his eyes briefly, the way he does when he knows what’s coming next.
I know too.
There was drama. With my mum. A whole thing. Raised eyebrows. Disappointed sighs. Questions that were not questions. Apparently two adults sharing a home and a baby without immediately planning a wedding is deeply unsettling to a certain generation.
Geoff had taken it quietly. Politely. Like a man filing away information he would deal with later.
Now, watching him shift his weight and lower his voice, I realise exactly why he hasn’t told his mum yet.
He exhales slowly. “What did Jasper tell you?”
At the same time, he lifts his free hand and draws a very clear line across his throat with his thumb, eyes narrowing at an imaginary target. I give him a look that says, ‘if you bury a body in my kitchen, you’re cleaning it up yourself’.
There’s a pause. His shoulders sag.
“Yes,” he says. “That Jasper.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“No, Mum. I’m not angry,” he adds. “I’m just reassessing my relationship with my brother.”
He exhales, then steps closer to me, lifting the phone and switching to video. He angles it so we’re both in frame, shoulder to shoulder. On the screen, his mum appears instead, filling it entirely with enthusiasm.
“Oh!” she says brightly. “There you are!”
Geoff smiles, the careful one he uses when he’s bracing himself. “Hi, Mum.”
“And who’s this?” she asks, peering closer.
“This is Christa,” he says. “Christa, this is my mum.”
I give a small wave. “Hello.”
She beams. “Well. You’re lovely.”
“Strong start,” I say.
She laughs immediately, delighted, and I can see why Geoff hadn’t wanted to unleash this energy unprepared.
“Right,” Geoff says, inhaling. “There’s something we need to tell you.”
Her eyes light up. “I knew it.”
“Mum,” he says patiently. “Please don’t narrate. We’re having a baby,” he adds.
There’s a beat of silence.
Then his mum makes a sound like someone’s just switched her joy settings to maximum.
“A baby,” she says. “Geoffrey.”
“Yes.”
“With Christa,” she adds, glancing between us.
“Yes,” he says again. “With Christa.”
Her smile widens, eyes already shining. “Oh. How wonderful.”
Geoff doesn’t rush. He lets the moment land, then says, calmly, “There’s more.”
She stills. “Alright.”
“We’re not getting married,” he says. “We’re co-parenting. Together. But we’re not planning a wedding.”
I brace myself.
His mum blinks once. Then nods.
“Well,” she says. “That makes sense.”
Geoff looks genuinely startled. “It does?”
“Of course,” she replies. “Babies are a lot. Weddings are a lot. No need to stack your stress like some sort of emotional Jenga tower. You can always throw a party later if you feel like it.”
Geoff swallows, then clears his throat. “Just to be clear,” he says, careful and earnest in that way he gets when he’s lining up facts in his head, “we’re also not… a couple.”
There it is.
His mum blinks. Once. Then again. Her head tilts slightly, like a Wi-Fi signal has dropped.
“Not a couple,” she repeats.
“No,” Geoff says. “We’re friends. Co-parents. Living together. Raising a child. But not romantically involved.”
I give a small, polite wave beside him, like this is a completely normal sentence to hear for the first time via video call.
His mum studies us both, eyes flicking from him to me, back again. “So you’re having a baby together,” she says slowly, “but you’re not together.”
“Yes,” Geoff says.
“And you live together.”
“Yes.”
“And you get on.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not secretly miserable.”
“No.”
She considers this, lips pursed. “Right.”
I can almost hear the mental furniture being rearranged.
“Well,” she says at last, “that’s… modern.”
Geoff exhales, relieved. “It is.”
She nods again. “I suppose that’s what matters. That you’re kind to each other. And that the baby is wanted.”
“Yes,” Geoff says instantly.
His mum’s smile softens. “Good.”
Then, inevitably, she adds, “I’m not saying things can’t change.”
Geoff closes his eyes. “Mum.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues breezily, “life is long. People surprise themselves. Stranger things have happened.”
I snort before I can stop myself.
Her gaze snaps to me, delighted. “See? She laughs. That’s promising.”
Geoff groans. “Please don’t analyse us like a romcom.”
“Oh, darling,” his mum says warmly. “I absolutely will.”
She leans closer to the screen, voice dropping into something gentler. “But, however it turns out, I’m very glad you’ve found each other. In whatever way this is.”
That lands. Quietly. Solidly.
Geoff nods. “Me too.”
His mum beams. “Good. Then I’m happy.”
She pauses, then brightens again. “Now. When can I visit?”