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“Bros for life,” I say.
More tears leak out of her eyes, and I laugh and kiss her forehead. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you go and choose a bedroom and get in bed. I’ll come and say goodnight after I’ve locked up. You can unpack tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she murmurs. Taking the onesies with her, she heads off to the other end of the house.
I turned off the record player and put the album away. Then I go around making sure all the doors are locked and the lights are off. Finally, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and have a long drink, then visit the bathroom. She’s emptied the bath and hung the towels up, so I turn off the light and go to discover which bedroom she’s chosen.
All the spare bedrooms are empty. I turn around and stand in the doorway of mine. She’s in my bed, curled up, looking at the onesies. She’s spread a towel on the pillow so her damp hair doesn’t make the bed wet. She’s still wearing the T-shirt I left out for her. The bedside lamp is on, casting her and the room in a warm glow. Her eyelids are drooping—she’s almost asleep.
I lean on the door jamb, hands in my pockets. “You’re in my bed,” I say.
She looks up. I wonder whether she’s going to look alarmed and apologize, but to my surprise she just says, “I know. It smells of you.”
My lips curve up.
I go over to the bed and climb on—fully clothed, on top of the duvet—and roll onto my side to face her, propping my head on a hand. She brushes her fingers over the onesies.
“They were such a nice present,” she whispers.
I pick up the red and blue set. She’s right—they’re very small. “We’ll have to think of some names,” I say.
Her face lights up. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
“How about Tom and Jerry?”
“I was thinking Beavis and Butt-Head.”
We both laugh. Then she yawns. She looks exhausted.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Okay. Just tired.”
“Can I get you anything? Something to eat or drink?”
She smiles. “No, I’m fine. That fish-finger sandwich was wonderful. You’re such a good cook.”
“No, you’re just easily impressed.” I chuckle.
The duvet is lying across her hips. She looks down at where her bump stretches the T-shirt, and rests her hand on it.
I start singing the chorus of John Lennon’sBeautiful Boy, adding an ‘s’ on the end to make it plural, and she laughs.
Then she inhales sharply, and her eyes widen.
“What?” I say, alarmed. “Are you all right?”
She stares off into space, blinking, her hand still resting on her bump. Then her eyes meet mine. She takes my hand and moves it to her bump, placing hers over the top.
My heart races, but we lie quietly, just waiting.
“Sing again,” she whispers.
So I do, my voice husky, telling them the monster is gone and their daddy is here. And then hers eyes widen again. “I felt them move,” she whispers. “They’re saying hello. Did you feel it?”
“No. It’s probably a bit early for me. But I’m glad you did.” My beautiful boys. I’m too choked up to say anything more. Instead, I just stroke her tummy, feeling the dip of her waist and the strange, gentle swell of her body.
Catie studies my face, then slides her arm around me and cuddles up to me. I wrap my arms around her, and we lie there like that, her head tucked under my chin, while she hugs the onesies against her.
