Chapter 9
Miranda read the message twice before answering. The first impulse was to call immediately, hear Owen in the background, and let Garrett’s frustration pull her home before she decided whether leaving had accomplished anything.
She typed instead.
We’re heading back now. Try walking him near the window and warming the second bottle a little less.
The reply arrived before she lowered the phone.
I know how to warm a bottle.
Miranda stared at the screen until Claire reached over and pressed the elevator button. The doors opened with a soft chime, and they stepped inside beside a woman carrying three garment bags and a child asleep in a stroller.
“He’s angry,” Miranda said once the doors closed. She kept her voice low, though no one in the elevator appeared interested in them.
“He was angry when you left.” Claire glanced at the YSL bag hanging from Miranda’s wrist. “Now he also has a crying baby, which means the universe has committed the additional offense of not making him immediately competent.”
Miranda did not answer. The elevator descended through floors of clothing, furniture, and housewares while the scent on her wrist rose each time she moved.
By the time they reached the garage, Garrett had sent another message.
He finally took an ounce. We’re fine.
The reassurance would have comforted Miranda under any other circumstances. Instead, she heard the correction beneath it: he did not need her instructions, and she had worried for nothing.
Claire unlocked the car. “Do not call him from the parking garage.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You have your phone in both hands.”
Miranda put it into her purse and climbed into the passenger seat. The YSL bag rested upright between her feet, the gold ribbon visible above the black handles.
Traffic near the river had thickened while they were inside.
Claire drove with the windows closed now, the air-conditioning humming while Miranda watched pedestrians gather beneath café awnings and families move slowly along the waterfront.
She had spent weeks imagining an afternoon outside the house as rest, yet her body remained tuned toward home, measuring distance in feedings rather than miles.
Her phone vibrated once during the drive. Miranda did not check it until Claire stopped at a red light.
The message came from Garrett.
He’s asleep. Don’t rush because of him.
The last five words unsettled her more than the first. Garrett was angry enough to resent being needed, yet proud enough to reject the idea that Owen had summoned Miranda home.
She turned the phone facedown on her thigh.
When Claire pulled into the driveway, Garrett’s car sat where they had left it. The front curtains were partly open, but no one appeared at the window.
Miranda carried the YSL bag herself. Claire reached for it once, perhaps to spare her the awkwardness of entering with the purchase visible, but Miranda tightened her grip and walked toward the porch.
The house was quiet when they opened the door. The television played without sound in the living room, showing a baseball game Garrett did not follow, and the remains of a bottle stood on the coffee table beside a folded burp cloth.
Garrett sat in the armchair with Owen asleep against his chest. He had removed his shirt, and the baby lay skin-to-skin beneath a lightweight blanket, one cheek pressed against Garrett’s sternum while his fingers curled in the hair near Garrett’s collarbone.
For a moment, Miranda forgot the argument.
Garrett looked tired and uncomfortable, one arm trapped beneath Owen and the other resting along the chair. A damp streak ran from the baby’s mouth toward Garrett’s ribs, and the muscles in his neck had tightened from holding still.
His gaze moved first to Miranda’s face, then to the bag.
The tenderness left his expression so quickly that Miranda wondered whether she had imagined it.
“You bought it,” he said. He did not move, though his attention remained fixed on the gold ribbon.
Miranda set her purse on the console table. “Not the same one.”
“How much?”
Claire closed the front door behind them. The question had come before any greeting, before Garrett asked whether Miranda had enjoyed herself or whether Claire planned to stay.
“Garrett,” Claire said, but Miranda shook her head.
“Seven hundred and ninety-two dollars,” she answered. “I left eighty in the account.”
His face changed with the exactness of the number. He looked down at Owen as though the baby required his attention, then adjusted the blanket over the small curve of his back.
“You spent almost all of it.”
“Yes.”
“And that seemed reasonable while you were standing there.”
Miranda removed her shoes and lined them beside the wall. “I knew the total before I paid.”
“That was not my question.”
“It was the only part worth answering.”
Garrett let out a breath and looked toward Claire. “Could you give us a minute?”
Claire rested one hand on the strap of her purse. “I can leave if Miranda wants me to.”
“I want you to stay for a few minutes,” Miranda said. “HR responded.”
The subject changed Garrett’s expression before he could resist it. “What did they say?”
Miranda took out her phone and handed it to him. He read the first message, then the second, his mouth tightening when he reached the warning about internal correspondence.
“Why would they tell you not to forward anything?” he asked.
“Because I forwarded emails to myself.”
“What emails?”
“Messages about my accounts and return.” Miranda sat on the edge of the sofa, careful not to disturb Owen. “Dennis answered a client who asked when I was coming back by saying the company was evaluating staffing needs.”
Garrett read the messages again. His anger about the money did not disappear, but it shifted, temporarily displaced by something he understood more readily.
“Did you send confidential client material?” he asked.
“I sent threads that discussed my role.”
“That isn’t the same as saying there was nothing confidential in them.”
Claire looked at him. “Her job may be disappearing, and your first concern is whether she violated policy by finding out.”
“My first concern is that she doesn’t make this easier for them.” Garrett handed the phone back to Miranda. “If they can say you mishandled company information during leave, they’ll use it.”
The warning was practical enough that Miranda could not dismiss it, but it arrived without reassurance. Garrett had moved directly to damage control, as though HR’s message confirmed that Miranda needed supervision more than support.
“The meeting is at nine tomorrow,” she said. “Dennis will be there.”
“I should join.”
“No.”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“Because I need to hear what they say when you are not managing the room.”
“I’m not trying to manage anything.”
“You work with Dennis every day. He will speak differently if you are there.”
“He might speak more honestly.”
“To you.”
The words landed cleanly. Garrett looked down at Owen, who shifted once beneath the blanket and settled again.
Claire moved toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make coffee and pretend the walls are thicker than they are.”
“No,” Garrett said. His voice remained low for the baby, but anger sharpened it. “You do not get to stay here while we discuss this and then disappear when it becomes uncomfortable.”
Claire stopped beside the dining table. “I am here because Miranda asked me to be.”
“And I am her husband.”
“Yes. Isn’t it sad that has not prevented her from needing someone else?”
Garrett’s expression hardened, and Miranda stood before the exchange could become another argument carried out over Owen’s sleeping body.
“Claire, thank you for coming,” she said. “I’ll call you tonight.”
Claire looked at her for a moment, checking whether the dismissal was chosen rather than forced. Then she picked up her laptop and legal pad, placed them inside her bag, and crossed to Miranda.
“I emailed you the timeline,” she said. She kissed Miranda’s cheek, then bent carefully over Garrett’s chair and brushed one finger along Owen’s foot. “Call before the meeting if you want me on speaker.”
Garrett did not answer. He remained still until the front door closed behind her, then looked at the YSL bag again.
“What did you buy?” he asked.
Miranda expected anger and heard something more complicated beneath it. He wanted the details because they gave the loss shape.
“Perfume, serum, mascara, two lipsticks, and a cosmetic pouch.”
“Seven hundred and ninety-two dollars for that.”
“Yes.”
Garrett gave a quiet laugh and looked away. “You could have bought all of that at the drugstore for a hundred.”
“I didn’t want the drugstore version.”
“You didn’t want any version until yesterday.”
Miranda lifted the bag from the floor. “I wanted to know what I liked.”
“And now you do.”
“Yes.”
He watched her carry it toward the stairs. Owen remained asleep, pinning him to the chair and preventing him from following without waking the baby.
“Are you going to show me?” Garrett asked.
Miranda stopped at the bottom step.
The question sounded almost like a request to enter the experience, but the resentment in his face prevented her from mistaking it for curiosity. He wanted to see what had replaced the rod, to inspect each object and confirm that none of it justified the price.
“No,” she said. She shifted the bag against her leg and added, “You already decided what it means.”
Garrett looked at her over Owen’s sleeping head. “So have you.”
Miranda climbed the stairs without answering.
In the bedroom, she placed the black box on the dresser and untied the ribbon. The knot loosened beneath her fingers, revealing layers of tissue folded with more care than anything inside required.
Her phone vibrated again before she lifted the lid.
The message was from Dennis.
Miranda, I understand you have concerns about your leave and position. I wish you had come to me before reviewing internal correspondence without authorization. We’ll discuss everything tomorrow.
She read it once, then took a screenshot and sent it to Claire.
Downstairs, Owen began to cry.
Garrett’s voice followed almost immediately, low and soothing at first. When the crying continued, he called Miranda’s name from the bottom of the stairs.
She looked at the open box, the perfume bottle nested in black tissue, and the HR message still visible on her phone.
Then she went down to feed her son.