Baby Be Mine

chest.
    ‘What do you mean?’ I ask warily.
    He hesitates. ‘I don’t want to end up with another woman, have more kids.’
    I stare back at him, into his green, green eyes, but all I feel is pain.
    He reaches over and takes my hand, but I snatch it away.
    ‘Nutmeg . . .’ he says.
    ‘No.’ I shake my head vehemently. ‘No. I can’t do this.’
    ‘I won’t hurt you again.’ His voice is almost a whisper.
    ‘You can’t promise me that.’
    ‘I can and I will. I do,’ he insists.
    ‘Stop it.’
    Barney makes his way back over to us and our conversation is cut short. ‘Let’s talk later,’ he says.
    ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’
    He doesn’t look at me as he gets to his feet.
    We have an early dinner that night before heading to our rooms.
    ‘Can I help with bath time?’ he asks outside my room.
    ‘No, it’s okay.’
    ‘Come on, I don’t get to do it much. Go and chill out in my room or something.’
    ‘Okay,’ I agree. He heads into my room and I into his. I stand there for a minute, looking around. His ever-present guitar is lying on the bed – he must’ve been playing it earlier. I climb up onto the bed myself and gently run my fingers across the strings. The ache in my heart has been replaced with jittery nerves. I’ve been getting this sensation a lot lately. I remember it well.
    What am I doing? What is he doing? He’s toyed with my feelings before and I couldn’t bear it if he were cruel enough to do it again.
    Can I trust him? No. I don’t trust him. That’s the God’s honest truth.
    I climb down from the bed and walk determinedly to my room.
    ‘I’ll take over from here,’ I say firmly.
    His brow furrows. ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘I’m sure.’
    I don’t look at him as he steps away from the bath. ‘Out we get.’ I try to sound bright and breezy as I lift Barney out of the bath and wrap him in a fluffy white towel.
    ‘Meg . . .’ His tone is disappointed.
    ‘Night, Johnny.’
    It’s a long moment before I hear the bedroom door close and then the pain returns tenfold. I try to swallow the lump in my throat as I read a bedtime story to Barney and then settle him in his cot. I just want to get him to sleep so I can shed a few tears in peace. I’m all set and ready to go when my phone beeps.
    Come through. We need to talk.
    Can’t leave Barney.
    Yes you can. Bring monitor.
    No.
    Yes.
    No! Bugger off!
    Not taking no for an answer.
    I don’t reply. He sends me another text a minute later:
    I mean it.
    Oh, for God’s sake. Then I remember something:
    Can’t. Didn’t bring monitor with me.
    My phone starts to ring. It’s him.
    ‘Leave your phone there,’ he says firmly. ‘I’ll put my phone on speaker so you’ll be able to hear him if he wakes up.’
    ‘No, Johnny.’
    ‘Meg, stop fucking around,’ he snaps. ‘Come through or I’ll drag you in here.’
    ‘Alright, then, you bully.’ But our feisty exchange lightens my mood. I place my phone in Barney’s cot and go out of the door. Johnny is waiting for me. He gives me a wry look and I smirk up at him as I pass under his arm, which is holding the door back. He closes the door behind me and I turn to face him.
    ‘What?’
    ‘What do you mean, what?’ he says.
    ‘What do you want to say?’
    ‘Jesus, babe, don’t make it easy for me.’
    ‘Don’t call me babe,’ I snipe.
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘You’ve probably called a hundred other girls “babe”, maybe more. I don’t want to be like them.’
    ‘You’re not,’ he says simply.
    ‘How do I know that?’ I ask pointedly and he stares at me for a long moment before sighing. I find it slightly unnerving. He sits down on the bed and looks up at me.
    ‘I think you do know it,’ he says quietly.
    I look away from him. ‘No. No, I don’t.’ I glance back at him and he’s still staring at me. It’s not like he’s telling me he loves me, or anything like that.
    Suddenly I feel exhausted. ‘I’m going to bed.’
    ‘Don’t go,’ he murmurs.
    I hesitate, but still no declaration of love.
    ‘Argh!’ I snap, heading towards the door.
    ‘Meg, wait,’ he says, standing up. I pause with my hand on the doorknob. ‘You know,’ he says.
    ‘I know what?’ He’s going to have to spell it out. I’m sorry, but he owes me that.
    ‘You know you’re special to me.’
    A feeling of déjà vu hits me. ‘You’ve said that to me before,’ I tell him flatly as the memory clearly hits him, too. He said it and