Chapter 2
By nine-fifteen, Owen had fallen asleep against her chest. Miranda sat propped against the headboard with one arm growing numb beneath him, afraid to move and too tired to care that she had left her breakfast untouched downstairs.
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand. She reached for it carefully, expecting Garrett to tell her he had forgotten something, but the notification came from Halcyon Creative’s social media account.
The company had posted a photograph of Willa standing among the raffle baskets, one hand shielding her eyes from the morning sun. Garrett was visible behind her, carrying two baskets toward the building while Willa looked over her shoulder at him with her mouth open in laughter.
The caption read, Some employees arrive early. Some employees save the day.
Miranda studied the photograph longer than it required. Then she lowered the phone and adjusted Owen’s sleeping weight against her, telling herself she was only annoyed because the company had praised Garrett for the extension cords before he had remembered to bring home her chocolate.
Owen slept for twenty-three minutes.
Miranda knew because she watched the time change on the lock screen while his cheek grew warmer against her chest and the muscles in her arm turned from numb to painful.
She had nearly managed to ease him onto the mattress beside her when his eyes opened, dark and accusing, and his mouth folded into the square little shape that meant she had approximately three seconds to undo whatever betrayal he believed she had committed.
“I’m right here,” she whispered, lifting him before the first cry could gather force. “Nothing happened.”
Something had happened, apparently, because Owen began to wail with his whole body. His legs stiffened beneath the sleep sack, and he pressed his face against her collarbone as though the room itself had become intolerable during the brief moment his eyes were closed.
Miranda carried him downstairs and tried all the usual remedies in their usual order.
She fed him, though he had eaten before sleeping; changed him, though his diaper was barely wet; walked him through the living room while patting his back in the rhythm Garrett claimed was too fast and her mother claimed was too slow.
By ten-thirty, Owen had rejected the swing, the bouncer, the play mat, two different pacifiers, and the song Miranda had sung so many times that she no longer remembered whether she liked it.
Her phone buzzed several times on the kitchen counter. She ignored it until Owen’s crying softened to aggrieved hiccups, then shifted him into one arm and checked the screen.
The first notification was from Halcyon.
Someone had added another photograph to the company post, this one taken inside the event space after the baskets had been arranged along a table draped in navy cloth.
Willa stood behind them beside Garrett, her sunglasses pushed onto her head and one hand curled around his forearm while she leaned toward something he was saying.
The caption had not changed. The comments had.
Dream team.
Willa and Garrett always make it happen.
How did we survive before these two?
Miranda scrolled past them without deciding to.
She recognized most of the names, people who had once commented beneath photographs of Miranda presenting campaign boards or standing beside clients at launch events.
There were heart emojis from the receptionist, a joke from the head of accounts, and a reply from Dennis thanking Willa for “taking ownership” of the entire luncheon.
Taking ownership had been one of Dennis’s favorite phrases when Miranda worked for him. It had meant doing whatever he had forgotten to assign and allowing him to congratulate himself for encouraging initiative.
Owen twisted against her and caught a fistful of her hair. Miranda locked the phone and worked his fingers loose one by one.
“That’s not yours,” she said, though he seemed unconvinced. “Very little is, actually.”
He answered with a damp sigh and rested his head against her shoulder. His sudden peace felt less like success than exhaustion, but Miranda accepted it and moved carefully toward the coffee maker.
The front door opened at eleven-sixteen.
For one startled second, she thought Garrett had come home. Then her sister called from the entryway, “Are you decent, or have you finally stopped caring?”
Miranda closed her eyes in relief before answering. “That depends on your standards.”
Claire appeared in the kitchen carrying two paper cups and a brown bakery bag pressed against her chest. She was three years younger than Miranda and had treated motherhood as a hostile corporate takeover from the day Owen was born, arriving without warning to deliver food and criticize any relative who suggested Miranda should be enjoying every minute.
“My standards fell when I saw your husband’s pancake pan soaking in the sink,” Claire said. “I brought coffee and the almond thing you pretend you don’t like because it has eight hundred calories.”
“I don’t pretend anything. I eat it while feeling appropriately ashamed.”
Claire set the bag on the table and held out both arms for Owen. “Come to your favorite aunt. Your mother looks like she’s been held hostage.”
Owen studied her with the grave suspicion he reserved for people who wore perfume, then allowed himself to be transferred. Claire tucked him against her shoulder and began swaying without conscious effort, her body remembering a motion she had learned through repetition rather than necessity.
Miranda took the coffee and drank before checking what was in it. It was sweet and hot and exactly what she would have ordered for herself six months ago, before caffeine became something she measured against Owen’s sleep and her own nerves.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Garrett texted me.”
The coffee paused halfway to Miranda’s mouth. “When?”
“This morning. He said he had a work thing and you’d had a rough night.” Claire adjusted Owen when he began chewing on the shoulder of her jacket. “He asked if I could stop by for an hour.”
Miranda looked toward Garrett’s empty place at the table, where his fork still rested beside the remains of his pancake. The irritation she had carried since he left shifted slightly, unsettled by the evidence of something kind he had done without mentioning it.
“He didn’t tell me.”
“He probably wanted credit later.” Claire smiled, but she said it too lightly, watching Miranda over the rim of her cup. “Or he knew you’d say you didn’t need help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Your left eye is twitching.”
“It does that now.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
Miranda opened the bakery bag and tore a corner from the almond pastry. The first bite left sugar on her thumb, and she licked it away while Claire carried Owen toward the living room.
“Is this the office luncheon?” Claire asked. “The one you would normally be at?”
“I’m on leave.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Miranda followed her and sat on the sofa. “Employees only. It’s an appreciation thing.”
“Spouses not appreciated?”
“They’re not employees.”
“You are.”
“I’m not working right now.”
Claire lowered Owen onto the play mat and sat cross-legged beside him. She did not argue immediately, which was one of the reasons Miranda generally preferred her to their mother. Claire liked an argument too much to waste it before she had decided where it would hurt.
Her phone lay faceup on the rug beside her. The screen lit with a message, and Claire glanced down before looking back at Miranda.
“Halcyon posted about it,” she said.
“So I saw.”
“Willa looks good.”
Miranda tore another piece from the pastry and examined the uneven edge. “She always looks good.”
“She has the kind of hair that suggests she sleeps upright in a silk-lined drawer.” Claire picked up a cloth book and held it above Owen, who kicked both legs at the sight of it. “Garrett looks good too.”
“He’s wearing the shirt I told him to wear.”
“That explains it.”
Miranda waited for Claire to say more, though she had no reason to expect it. Claire had known Willa nearly as long as Miranda had. She had never disliked her, but Claire did not trust anyone.
“Did you comment?” Miranda asked.
“On the post?”
“Yes.”
“No.” Claire turned the page of the cloth book and made an exaggerated barking sound that startled Owen into silence. “I almost wrote that Garrett’s wife trained Willa for the job she’s currently being congratulated for, but I thought that might seem hostile.”
“It would seem hostile.”
“That’s why I didn’t do it.”
Miranda set the pastry down. “She is doing the job.”
“You’re on maternity leave, not dead.”
“No one said I was dead.”
“Good, because I ordered your birthday present already.”
Owen began to fuss, and Claire lifted him before the sound fully formed. He settled against her with insulting ease, one hand opening and closing against the lapel of her jacket.
Miranda watched her sister rub slow circles between his shoulders. “Garrett asked you to come because Owen had a bad night?”
“He said you both did.”
“He slept.”
“Garrett?”
“Like a log.”
Claire’s mouth tightened, though she kept her attention on the baby. “You’re allowed to be annoyed with him, you know. Asking me to stop by was thoughtful, but it doesn’t erase leaving you alone all day.”
“He’s not leaving me alone all day. He said he’d be back by two.”
Claire looked at the clock. “Then I guess we’ll find out what time two means in Garrett-speak.”
Miranda picked up her coffee and drank again. She wanted to defend him, partly because Claire expected her to and partly because the marriage felt more secure when she did not allow anyone else to examine its weak points too closely.
“He’ll come home,” she said. “He always does.”
Claire’s expression changed then, not dramatically enough to become concern, but enough that Miranda wished she had chosen different words. Before either of them could correct the moment, Miranda’s phone vibrated on the sofa cushion.
Garrett had sent a photograph.