Chapter 33
The Wisdom of Elizabeth Corbin
Geoff
Pee-Pee smiles at me before I even finish the sentence.
Not a smug smile. Not an I-told-you-so one. Just warm. Genuinely pleased. Like I’ve brought her a good exam result rather than news about my penis finally reporting back for duty.
“That’s encouraging, Geoff,” she says.
I grin cautiously. “I sure hope so.”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “It’s a start. And starts matter.”
I sit back in the chair, the leather creaking in solidarity. “Because I was worried this was the sort of thing you’re meant to pretend is no big deal so it doesn’t scare it off.”
She chuckles softly. “You don’t need to minimise it. You also don’t need to throw a parade. We can just… notice it.”
I nod, letting that land.
“Tell me what was different,” she says gently. “Not the outcome. The moment before.”
I stare at the rug. It’s the same neutral nonsense rug it always is. Somehow it feels safer than her eyes.
“I wasn’t trying,” I say. “I wasn’t checking in with myself every five seconds. I wasn’t thinking about whether it would happen or not.”
“And what were you thinking about?”
I hesitate. She waits. No clipboard energy. No ticking clock.
“Someone,” I say.
She doesn’t pounce on it. Doesn’t lean forward like a detective.
“Okay,” she says. “What about them?”
I shrug, then realise that’s useless. “I felt… settled. Comfortable. Like I didn’t have to impress or prove anything. I wasn’t imagining a performance. Just… being there.”
Her expression softens further.
“That’s important,” she says. “Your body responded when you weren’t under scrutiny. When you felt safe.”
I snort. “My penis needs a very specific emotional environment.”
She smiles. “Your body needs what you need.”
I roll that around in my head. “So you’re saying this isn’t a fluke.”
“I’m saying it’s information,” she replies. “And quite encouraging information.”
I glance up. “Encouraging how?”
“Well,” she says carefully, “it suggests that something in your life has shifted. Less pressure. More ease. You’re not bracing yourself in the same way.”
I think about Christa. The way she doesn’t watch me like she’s waiting for something to go wrong. The way she laughs at me instead of through me. The way being near her feels like exhaling.
“That someone you were thinking about,” Pee-Pee continues, “how do you feel when you’re with them?”
I open my mouth. Close it again. Goldfish mode activated.
“Calm,” I say eventually. “Grounded. Like I don’t have to be on.”
She nods, pleased. “That’s not nothing, Geoff.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s… new.”
“And do you think,” she asks gently, “that perhaps your body is responding to the fact that you’re starting to feel emotionally settled?”
I rub a hand over my face. “You make it sound very sensible.”
“It is,” she says. “Arousal isn’t just physical. It’s relational. Contextual. When your nervous system feels safe, your body follows.”
I sit quietly for a moment.
“And if,” she adds, “this person happens to be someone you care about more than you’ve admitted so far, that would make sense too.”
I huff out a laugh, low and nervous. “We’re just friends.”
She raises an eyebrow. Not accusing. Curious.
“Are you?”
I don’t answer straight away.
The room is quiet in that deliberate way therapy rooms are, like even the furniture knows better than to interrupt. Pee-Pee doesn’t rush me. She doesn’t fill the silence. She just waits, hands folded loosely in her lap, expression open.
I rub my thumb along the seam of the chair.
“It’s Christa,” I say.
The words come out calm. No fanfare. No flinch. Like they’ve been waiting their turn.
Pee-Pee’s mouth curves into a small, knowing grin.
“Thank you for saying that,” she says. Not well done. Not finally. Just… thank you.
I huff out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. “There it is.”
“Yes,” she agrees gently. “There it is.”
I stare at the floor. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t go looking for it. It just… happened.”
“That’s usually how it happens,” she says. “Especially when you stop trying so hard.”
I nod. My chest feels strange. Lighter. Heavier. Both.
“When I’m with her,” I continue, “I’m not waiting for something to go wrong. I’m not thinking three steps ahead. I’m just… there. And my body noticed before I did.”
Pee-Pee smiles. “Your body is often quicker than your logic. It doesn’t have the same defences.”
“Rude,” I mutter.
She chuckles. “It’s also honest.”
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. “I keep telling myself she’s my friend. That’s the safe box. No expectations. No risk.”
“And how does that box feel?” she asks.
I think about it. The tightness. The way I’ve been carefully stepping around the edges of something bigger.
“Small,” I admit. “Like I’m folding myself into it.”
She nods. “And when you imagine letting it be more than that?”
My stomach flips. Not dread. Not panic. Something steadier. Grounded.
“Scary,” I say. “But… good scary. The kind where you don’t want to run.”
Pee-Pee’s gaze is warm now. Proud, but not in a patronising way.
“That tells us a lot,” she says. “Your arousal didn’t return because you forced it. It returned because you felt emotionally settled. Because there’s trust. Care. Safety.”
I swallow.
“So this isn’t just about sex,” I say quietly.
“No,” she replies. “It never was.”
I sit with that for a moment.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” I admit. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You don’t need to do anything yet,” she says. “Awareness is enough for now. Let yourself feel it without trying to manage it.”
I nod slowly.
“And Geoff,” she adds, her tone softening even further, “wanting more doesn’t mean you’re failing at being cautious. It means you’re ready to be present.”
I breathe out, long and steady.
I don’t remember when my life stopped being simple and started being worth it, but here we are.
I unlock the door and step straight into voices.
Laughter first. Then my mum’s voice, calm and authoritative, saying, “No, no, breathe into it. You’re not blowing out candles. You’re making space.”
I stop dead, keys still in my hand.
Making space for what, exactly?
I take another step in and finally see them.
Christa is on a yoga mat.
Since when do we have a yoga mat?
It’s been dragged into the middle of the open-plan living space where the coffee table usually lives. She’s sitting upright, legs bent, hands resting on her bump, concentrating like this is an exam she didn’t revise for.
My mum is opposite her, mirroring the position with alarming competence.
“That’s it,” Mum says approvingly. “Shoulders down. Lovely. You’re holding tension here.” She taps her own neck. “I did exactly the same. That and heartburn were absolutely relentless.”
Christa lets out a breathy laugh. “That sounds… familiar.”
I clear my throat.
Both of them look up at the same time.
“Oh good,” Mum says brightly. “You’re home.”
Christa grins. “Hi.”
I gesture vaguely at the scene. “Why are you both on my floor?”
“Pregnancy yoga,” Mum says, like this explains everything. “You should have started this weeks ago.”
“I didn’t know yoga was my responsibility,” I say.
Christa shifts slightly on the mat. “Your mum says it’s about breathing and posture. And definitely not martyring myself by standing up too much.”
Mum nods. “Very important. He needs reminding,” she adds, pointing at me.
“I am standing right here,” I say.
“And yet,” she replies calmly, “still not offering her a cushion.”
Christa tilts her head, thoughtful. “A cushion would be nice.”
I move. Immediately. Grab one. Then another, because this is a test and I am not failing it twice.
Mum hums with satisfaction. “Good. See, he can be trained.”
“Excuse me,” I say.
Mum ignores this entirely, gets to her feet, and pulls me into a hug that is firm, affectionate, and faintly judgemental. She smells like perfume and home and something warm and savoury that makes my stomach immediately sit up and pay attention.
“You look thin,” she says into my shoulder. “Are you eating enough?”
“Yes,” I say. “I eat plenty.”
“Mm,” she replies, unconvinced, and pulls back just far enough to look at my face. “And you need to take better care of her.”
She gestures at Christa like she’s presenting evidence.
“I am taking care of her,” I protest.
Mum raises an eyebrow. “You brought her a cushion only after being prompted.”
“That was a timing issue,” I say weakly.
Christa, traitor that she is, smiles sweetly. “She’s not wrong.”
I open my mouth to defend myself and am immediately distracted by the smell now fully invading the room.
I sniff. Once. Then again.
“…Have you cooked?”
Mum brightens. “Of course I’ve cooked.”
My heart does a small, happy lurch. “Is that meat loaf?”
“It is,” she says proudly. “Proper one. None of that dry nonsense. And I’ve done mash. And greens. You looked tired on the video call.”
I look at her. Then at my flat. Then back at her.
“What are you doing here?”
She sighs like this question is mildly disappointing.
“Well,” she says, “I had every intention of waiting until you decided it was the appropriate moment to bring Christa to Guernsey and introduce her.” She gives me a pointed look and I flinch like I always do when she looks at me like this.
“But,” she continues, turning back to Christa, “I realised I also haven’t met Ivy or Miranda yet.
And it seemed silly to sit around waiting when flights from Guernsey are practically free if you don’t mind leaving at ungodly hours. ”
Christa laughs. “That explains the energy.”
“Exactly,” Mum says. “And I promised Lucy I’d take her out for a belated birthday afternoon tea.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” she says simply. “She was very clear that a promise is a promise. So I thought I’d make a little tour of it. See my children. Meet the women who are clearly keeping them in line.”
There is another pointed look and another flinch.
“How’s dad?”
“He thought he’d rather go fishing than face London, but he wants you all to come home soon. I, for one, was sick of waiting. If my sons can’t be bothered to bring their significant others to me, I have to come myself. So, here I am.”
She looks between Christa and me.
“I hope that’s alright,” she adds, softer now.
Christa nods immediately. “It’s lovely. I was just… not expecting pregnancy yoga when I opened the door.”
Mum beams. “Neither was I. But one adapts.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
My mum is in my flat. She’s cooked my favourite food. She’s bonding with Christa. She’s already scheduled time with my niece and decided to meet my brothers’ partners like this is a perfectly reasonable itinerary.
But it's not.
This is overwhelming.
This is chaos.
This is my life, apparently.
By the time I get back into the kitchen, Mum is packing up the leftovers, probably to take them to Jasper, her baby boy.
“Christa’s taking a nap,” I say. “In her room.”
Mum hums in approval. “About time. She was flagging.”
“I didn’t realise naps came with commentary,” I say, reaching for a plate.
“They do when you’ve carried three children,” she replies serenely. “Everything comes with commentary after that.”
We clear the table in a companionable silence. Mum insists on washing up because, according to her, the dishwasher “doesn’t get all the germs”. I dry. This is safer.
When the last plate is away, she fills the kettle.
“Sit,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
I sit.
She makes the tea with care. Lets it brew. Milk last. None of my rushed nonsense. Then she brings the mugs over and settles opposite me, wrapping both hands around hers like this is a deliberate moment rather than an ambush.
She watches me for a second. Not critically. Just… attentively.
“Geoffrey,” she says.
I wince. “That name never means anything good.”
She smiles faintly. “I know a nosy mother should stay out of her son’s business.”
I wait for the inevitable but.
“But,” she continues calmly, “I don’t quite understand why you and Christa aren’t together.”
There it is.
I stare into my tea like it might offer guidance.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
Mum snorts. “Everything worth having is.”
“She’s pregnant,” I add, as if this is a revelation.
“Yes,” she says. “And you’re living together. That’s not an accident.”
I rub my thumb along the handle of the mug. “I don’t want to mess it up.”
She leans forward slightly. Not intrusive. Just present.
“You know what messes things up?” she says quietly. “Standing still because you’re afraid to want something.”
That lands harder than I expect.
“I’m not saying rush,” she adds. “Or label anything. Or make grand declarations. God knows you’d panic.”
I huff a breath that might be a laugh.
“I’m saying don’t pretend this is nothing when it’s clearly something. That kind of pretending always costs more in the end.”
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.