2. Josh
Chapter two
Josh
The piercing wail shatters the quiet of the hallway.
My fingers cramp around the rigid plastic handle of the car seat. The heavy canvas bag slides down my left shoulder, the thick strap catching at my elbow. I shift my weight, trying to relieve the sharp burn in my bicep, but the movement only makes the baby jerk against the five-point harness.
The wail turns into a breathless, desperate shriek.
Liv doesn’t flinch. She just lets go of the brass door mechanism and steps back.
She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. The space she creates is an invitation, or a concession, and I take it before she can change her mind. I cross the threshold. I shouldn’t be here, but I have nowhere else to go.
I set the bucket seat down just inside the entryway. The plastic base hits the wood with a dull thud. The diaper bag slips completely off my arm, collapsing into a heap against the baseboards.
This isn’t where I was supposed to be tonight.
I drop to a crouch beside the seat. “Hey. Hey, sweetie, it’s okay.”
My voice is a rough rasp. I reach a hand in, my large fingers awkwardly attempting to untangle the yellow fleece blanket from where her tiny, enraged fist has it pinned against her chin.
She kicks her legs, her face turning an alarming shade of crimson.
My intervention does absolutely nothing.
My thumb slips on the fabric, and all at once, the obvious fact lands.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I pull my hand back and stand up, my knees cracking loudly in the quiet space.
Liv is standing three feet away.
She is wearing a silk camisole and tailored linen pants. Her hair is clipped back, smooth and perfect. Behind her, the living room is all precise angles. Magazines stacked. Pillows squared. One clean surface after another.
And I just dragged a bomb right through the front door.
I told myself I came here because Liv is calm in a crisis. That is true. It is also not the whole truth, and I do not have enough air in my lungs to deal with the rest.
I rub a hand hard over my jaw, the harsh scrape of evening stubble loud in my ears.
“Liv.” The name sticks in my dry throat. I try to pull a breath into my lungs, but my chest refuses to expand past the tight, frantic drumming of my heart. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t know where else to go...”
I stop. The words fragment and scatter. I can’t stand in her immaculate entryway and dump this reality onto her clean floors.
“There was an emergency,” I force out, my gaze dropping to the edge of a sleek marble kitchen island to avoid the piercing intensity of her eyes. “I had to grab her. I didn’t...”
The baby shrieks again, a sound so sharp it vibrates in my teeth.
“She’s my cousin’s,” I say quickly. “They took her into surgery. Someone from the hospital called me—I had to pick her up.”
Panic surges back up, overriding the rest of the explanation. I drop back to the canvas bag and yank the zipper open, digging past the crinkle of wipes, a spare onesie, and a rattle until my hand closes around the smooth plastic bottle.
Formula.
I get it to the kitchen island because I need a flat surface, because I need to do one useful thing, because the baby is still screaming and Liv is still standing there and it's one thing I know how to do next.
Resting inches from my hand is a sleek leather folder. A printed boarding pass and a passport is tucked into the flap.
My gaze snaps up, shooting past the island and to the hard-shell suitcase on the luggage rack. Packing cubes are arranged inside with Tetris-like precision.
She’s leaving the country.
My hand tightens on the edge of the counter.
The baby’s cries echo off the high ceilings, escalating into a frantic, choking rhythm.
My eyes move from the boarding pass to the suitcase, and finally to Liv.
“I need your help,” I say.
The words are stripped of all professional pride. Stripped of the careful, polite distance we have maintained for months. It is just a raw, desperate fact.
“Just for tonight,” I add, my voice dropping lower, breaking on the last syllable. “Please.”
Liv stares at me. Her expression is neutral, her shoulders squared, her hands loose at her sides. She doesn’t nod. She doesn’t argue. She doesn’t look at the suitcase or the boarding pass.
She simply steps past me.
The faint scent of her perfume—vanilla and something clean—drifts past me as she moves. She crouches gracefully beside the car seat. Instead of throwing me out, she reaches her steady hands for the plastic buckle of the five-point harness.
She acts, but she hasn’t spoken a single word of agreement. I stay frozen against the marble island, the plastic bottle forgotten, watching her hands.
Liv pulls the thick straps off the baby’s shoulders. Then she slides her hands under the baby’s arms and lifts her out of the seat. The baby is thrashing, but Liv anchors her firmly against her chest. Her red, tear-streaked cheek presses right into the silk of the camisole.
The baby’s wails splinter. The screams break apart into exhausted, hiccuping sobs. She clutches a handful of Liv’s shirt in her tiny fist, her body settling against Liv.
“The bottle,” Liv says.
She doesn’t raise her voice over the crying. She doesn’t look at me. It is a pure, courtroom-level directive.
I snatch the cylinder off the marble island. I cross the short distance between us, stepping into her space. She holds out her free hand. I place the bottle into her palm. The brush of her fingers against mine is brief, but the warmth of her skin sends a sharp jolt straight up my forearm.
I pull my hand back quickly, burying it in the pocket of my trousers.
“It’s cold,” she notes, her fingers wrapping around the base. She looks up, meeting my eyes for the first time since I stepped inside. Her gaze is a dark, unreadable brown. “Turn on the kitchen sink. Run the hot water over it until it’s lukewarm. Do not microwave it.”
“I know,” I say automatically.
“Then do it.”
She turns her back to me and starts to pace the length of the living room.
I move to the stainless faucet and turn on the hot water. Steam rises within seconds.
Over the rushing water, I watch her.
I grab a small pot, fill it halfway, and drop the bottle in.
Liv maintains a slow, deliberate rhythm. She walks a tight circle around the glass coffee table, bouncing gently on her heels. She hums a single, low note. It is the same steady hum she used to make when reading her legal briefs on my old apartment sofa.
When I step into the living room, Liv sits on the very edge of the pristine couch. She shifts the baby into the crook of her arm.
I hand her the warmed formula. She guides the nipple to her mouth.
Silence.
It is absolute and instantaneous. The only sound left in the room is the frantic rhythm of her swallowing. Her small hands flex against Liv’s arm, her eyes drifting shut.
The knot in my chest loosens enough to pull in a full breath. I lock my knees, standing awkwardly over the two of them.
Liv keeps her eyes on the baby’s face. Her thumb gently strokes the soft curve of the baby’s cheek. It is a devastatingly tender gesture, completely at odds with the rigid set of her jaw.
“My car to JFK arrives tomorrow at four p.m.,” she says, her voice a murmur.
I swallow hard. “Liv—”
“I am not canceling my flight.” She finally looks up at me.
The vulnerability is gone, replaced by a wall of absolute steel.
“And you are not staying here. This is my sanctuary, Josh. We’re taking her to your place.
I’ll help you get through the night. I will help you keep her calm.
But tomorrow afternoon, you are on your own. I am getting on that plane.”
I nod once. Relief and dread crash together in my ribs. “Thank you. I swear, I’ll figure it out by tomorrow.”
Liv’s gaze drops to the canvas bag abandoned by the front door. She looks back at the baby, who is rapidly draining the last few ounces of liquid.
“You are going to have to figure it out a lot faster than that,” she says flatly. She looks at the bag by the door, then back at the bottle in her hand. “This is the only one.”
My stomach drops.
The clock reads 11:00 p.m.
“And she’s going to be hungry again in three hours.”