Chapter 22 Squirty Cream
Squirty Cream
Christa
The door opens again.
Not dramatically. Just enough to let him back in.
Geoff steps inside and pulls it shut behind him, slower this time. Like the flat might object if he moves too quickly. He hasn’t been gone long enough for the air to change, but it feels different anyway. Tighter. Like it’s waiting to see what happens next.
I’m still where I was when he stepped outside.
Sitting on the stool, plate in front of me.
The crumpet is halfway demolished, hazelnut and chocolate spread smeared into something that could only generously be called even.
Squirty cream is melting into it with the quiet determination of dairy that knows it’s won.
I don’t look at him straight away.
“Well,” I say, because silence would be worse. “That was quick.”
He doesn’t answer.
I glance up then. He’s standing just inside the door, hands empty, shoulders tense, eyes unfocused. Like he’s come back into the room physically but left part of himself on the landing.
“What happened?” I ask. Not softly. Not sharply. Just… there.
“She left,” he says whilst taking his jacket off.
Ah.
I nod once. No commentary. No follow-up questions. I take another bite of crumpet instead, mostly to give my mouth something to do while my brain files that under Things That Went as Expected but Still Hurt.
He exhales, slow and heavy, like he’s letting something deflate.
Instead of hovering or bolting or staring into the middle distance like a Victorian orphan, he shuffles over to the kitchen island and drops onto the bar stool beside me. Close. Close enough that his knee bumps mine.
He eyes my plate with deep suspicion.
“That,” he says carefully, poking the crumpet with one finger, “looks absolutely disgusting.”
I glance down at it. The hazelnut and chocolate spread is everywhere, the cream has collapsed into a glossy, slightly obscene puddle, and the whole thing has the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.
“It’s amazing,” I say, defensive already.
“It looks like it lost a fight.”
I take a deliberately massive bite, cheeks full, swallow with determination, then tip my head back and spray a big dollop of squirty cream straight into my mouth.
Geoff snorts. An actual, undignified snort.
“Oh my God,” he says, laughing despite himself. “How old are you?”
“Emotionally?” I say, licking a bit of cream off my thumb. “About nine. Spiritually? Ancient.”
He shakes his head, still smiling, and, for the first time since he stepped back inside, something in his face loosens. The tightness around his eyes eases. His shoulders drop a fraction.
“This,” he says, gesturing at the crumpet, “cannot possibly be helping.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” I reply. “This is the best emotional food I’ve ever discovered.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Better than wine?”
“Much better than wine,” I say firmly. “Wine lies to you. This doesn’t. This says yes, everything is a bit shit, but here is sugar and dairy and joy.”
He laughs again, quieter this time. “That’s… disturbingly convincing.”
“Works faster too,” I add. “No hangover. No crying at strangers. Just instant cheer and a mild sense of shame.”
I hold out the squirty cream to him.
He eyes it like it might explode. “No.”
“Oh come on,” I say, nudging his elbow with mine. “You know you want to.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You do,” I insist. “Your soul wants it. Your dignity is just being loud.”
He laughs and turns his head away, shoulders hunching like that’ll save him. “I’m a grown man.”
“Debatable.”
Before he can protest again, I slide off my stool, step in close, and hook an arm loosely around his shoulders. Not tight. Not aggressive. Just enough to make my point.
“Oh for God’s sake,” he says, already laughing. “What are you doing?”
“It is just for your best,” I reply. “Hold still.” He is a lot taller than me but, when he is sitting down, I have a chance. A small chance.
He squirms, laughing harder now, hands coming up instinctively to try to fend me off without actually pushing me away. I tighten my grip a fraction, my forearm warm against his chest.
“Open,” I say. “Like a good boy.”
He snorts. “Do not say it like that.”
“Open,” I repeat, cheerfully relentless.
“This is not fair.”
“This is care.”
“In what universe?”
“In mine. Now stop being difficult.”
He shakes his head, still laughing, breathless now, and finally, between gasps, he gives up and opens his mouth.
I do not waste the opportunity.
I spray. Generously. A frankly unnecessary amount.
Cream goes everywhere. Mouth. Lips. A bit on his nose because that’s just how this is going to go.
He chokes, swallows, then laughs so hard he has to bend forward, one hand bracing on the counter, the other scrubbing at his face.
“You’re unbelievable,” he says, voice rough with laughter.
“You loved it,” I say, smug.
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
I slide back onto my stool beside him, reclaim the can, and tilt my head back for another spray of my own, the nozzle spluttering the last of the cream.
We sit there chewing and swallowing in companionable silence for a moment, both of us a bit ridiculous, both of us breathing easier.
He wipes his mouth, then glances sideways at me. “You realise if anyone ever finds out about this, I’ll have to move countries.”
“Relax,” I say. “Your secret’s safe. I’m very discreet about my medical interventions.”
He huffs a laugh, then sobers slightly, gaze dropping to the counter.
“Thank you,” he says again, quieter this time.
I don’t make a thing of it. I just bump my knee into his. “Any time. Next appointment’s biscuits. Possibly cake. Depends how dramatic you’re feeling.”
That gets another small grin out of him. A real one. The kind that doesn’t feel like it’s being held together with string.
We sit there, shoulders almost touching, the flat warm again, the silence no longer sharp.
Geoff clears his throat.
“I think,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the sentence for weak spots, “I’m going to put the dating thing on the back burner for a bit.”
I glance at him, neutral. Interested, but not pouncing.
“I’ll keep doing therapy,” he adds quickly. “I’m not pretending the… situation doesn’t exist.” He grimaces. “The limp dick situation.”
I snort. “Strong branding.”
“I just mean,” he says, huffing a laugh, “for now I want to focus on the teaching. And the baby. And… carving something out that actually feels like my life instead of a series of attempts.”
I nod. It makes sense. Too much sense.
Then I tilt my head. “Okay. But...”
He winces. “There’s always a but.”
“I want you to promise me something.”
He turns to face me. “Go on.”
“That you don’t use me and the baby as an excuse to hide,” I say, matter of fact. No drama. No accusation. “This was hard. Dating is hard. I don’t want to become a very convenient bunker.”
He doesn’t deflect. Credit where it’s due.
“I won’t,” he says. Then, more honestly, “I don’t want to. I just… I need to fix one thing at a time. If I start dating again right now, I’m basically handing women a leaflet titled Emotional Landmines: A Guided Tour.”
“That would be a lot for a first date,” I agree. “Maybe keep that for date three.”
He chuckles, then hesitates. “What about you?”
I raise an eyebrow. “What about me?”
“What about you dating?”
I bark out a laugh. “Have you seen my life lately?”
“That’s a no, then?”
“In my case,” I say dryly, “there’s no hiding it. Pregnant. Recently dumped. Living with a man who I just assaulted with dairy. It’s not exactly mysterious.”
“Fair.”
“And honestly,” I add, nudging the empty cream can with my finger, “I’ve got enough on my plate. Literally and metaphorically.”
He nods, thoughtful. “That makes sense.”
Then he tilts his head slightly, like something’s just clicked. “Can I ask you something?”
I eye him warily. “Historically, that question leads to nonsense.”
He ignores that. “You said the crumpets were the best emotional food you’ve ever discovered.”
“They are,” I say. “That’s just a fact.”
“Yes, but,” he says gently, “what were you dealing with that needed emotional food?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
He gestures vaguely between us, the counter, the empty cream can. “You don’t deploy that level of dairy intervention unless something’s up. So. What was it?”
For a moment, I consider deflecting. A joke would be easy. A flippant answer even easier. But the way he’s looking at me isn’t prying. It’s… present. Annoyingly so.
I sigh. “I’m a pregnant woman,” I say. “So there’s always something. Hormone-driven emotions. Random crying. Occasionally being horny at deeply inconvenient times.”
He huffs a laugh. “That sounds… intense.”
“It’s a delight,” I assure him. “Truly magical.”
“But today?” he prompts. “What about today?”
I stare at the counter, then shrug. “I was just feeling a bit overwhelmed.”
“By what?”
I laugh, short and humourless. “By everything.”
He waits. Doesn’t rush me. That’s new.
“I wasn’t sure I can do it all,” I admit. “The baby. Work. Starting over. Not losing myself completely. Not fucking it up.” I glance at him. “All very vague. All very loud.”
He nods slowly. “That’s a lot.”
“Thank you,” I say dryly. “I was worried I was being dramatic.”
“You’re not,” he says. “You’re human. And carrying another one.”
I snort and, before I can overthink it, lean my head against his shoulder. It’s instinctive. Familiar in a way that startles me after the fact. He goes still for half a second, then relaxes.
“You can always talk to me,” he says. “I’m happy to listen.”
I tilt my face up just enough to look at him. “Can you just… listen? Without trying to fix it?”
He considers this like it’s a dare. “I can try.”
“Try hard.”
He exhales. “It will be tough. I’m a fixer. It’s basically my brand.”
“I know,” I say. “But, if that’s what I need, can you do it?”
He nods. “Yeah. I can do it.”
“You are completely wasted on the celibate life,” I mutter.
He laughs, low and surprised. “I’ll put that on my CV.”
We sit like that for a moment. No talking. No analysis. Just breathing.
Then he clears his throat. “Can I do something?”
I don’t move. “That depends entirely on what you’re about to suggest.”
“Nothing exciting,” he says. “I was thinking I could make you a salad. With chicken. To counterbalance all the cream.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “You’re worried about my diet now?”
“I’m worried about your arteries,” he says. “And mine, by association.”
I laugh. “Alright. I’ll allow it. But I can’t guarantee what Pea-lime will think.”
He smiles. “Pea-lime has opinions about everything.”
Then, without any announcement or pause, he leans down and presses a quick kiss into my hair. Not lingering. Not dramatic. Just instinctive.
It catches me off guard in a way I don’t immediately unpack.
By the time my brain has caught up, he’s already on his feet, heading for the fridge.
“Right,” he says, opening the door. “Chicken. Leaves. Something lemony. We’re reintroducing responsibility.”
I stay where I am, watching him rummage around like nothing noteworthy has just happened.
Nothing’s been said. Nothing’s been defined.
But the warmth sticks around.
And for now, that’s enough.