3. Liv
Chapter three
Liv
“Put her here.”
I don’t look at Josh as I clear a space on the island and snap the blanket open.
He sets her down. She’s quiet, eyes drooping—then she kicks, her heel thumping against the marble, throwing the blanket out of place. Josh drops the canvas bag onto the nearest barstool. He reaches inside and pulls out a diaper and a plastic package of wipes. He sets them on the counter.
I stare at the diaper. It looks very small sitting on the counter. “Right,” I say, my voice steady. “Let’s get this done so she can sleep.”
I lay the baby on the yellow blanket and smooth one hand over her stomach. She looks up at me. I look down at her. For one whole second, we seem to have an understanding. Then her left leg shoots sideways.
“No,” I tell her softly. “We agreed.”
I move her leg back. She pulls both knees to her chest and makes a pleased little sound, as if she has just discovered a loophole in federal law.
Josh makes a noise behind me. I do not look at him. “I’m choosing to believe you are coughing,” I say.
“Yup, that's what I was doing. Coughing.”
I get one snap open.
She kicks.
I get a second snap open.
She kicks harder.
Her heel lands squarely in my stomach. All the air leaves me in a small, deeply undignified sound. I freeze, both hands above her onesie.
I am a corporate litigator. I manage multi-million-dollar acquisitions and handle hostile boardroom negotiations without breaking a sweat.
I have watched two CEOs argue over one sentence in a merger agreement for forty-five minutes.
A four-month-old in footie pajamas should not be my professional downfall.
Before I can recalibrate my grip, she twists her upper body. Her tiny, curled fist shoots out and grabs the strap of my silk camisole, just below my collarbone.
The fabric jerks downward. I reach for her fingers, trying to pry them loose without letting her pull any further. She tightens her grip.
“Hey you — let go,” I murmur, shifting closer, trying to get a better angle.
She doesn’t let go. She tightens her grip, her knuckles turning white, anchoring me to the counter.
I stop, bent over the counter, trapped.
I pinch the fabric of the camisole just above her fist, attempting to tug the silk free from between her clamped fingers. She yanks her arm down, pulling the neckline of the camisole dangerously low. My hand flies to my chest. Josh shuffles behind me.
I adjust my stance, leaning forward to give the silk some slack, and slide my index finger straight into the center of her palm to break her grip. She clamps down instantly, trapping my finger along with the silk in a vice-like hold.
A shadow falls over the marble.
Josh steps in beside me. His chest hovers inches from my right shoulder. His hand comes down over hers. His thumb presses lightly against the back of her hand. Her fingers open. My strap slips free.
Josh doesn’t step back immediately. His hand remains cupped over the baby’s open palm. I stay completely still, my shoulder pressed near the center of his chest. Finally, Josh steps back, giving me some clearance to stand up, with what little dignity I have left.
I clear my throat, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on the pink onesie.
“Thank you,” I say.
I slide the fabric off her arms. I unfasten the tabs of the ruined diaper and pull it away. But the second the plastic is clear, she rolls onto her side. The yellow fleece bunches up underneath her, destroying the flat alignment I just created.
I reach for her shoulder to roll her back, but Josh is already moving.
We reach for the package of wipes at the exact same millisecond. My knuckles collide with the back of his hand. I snatch my hand back as if I touched a live wire.
Josh flips the plastic lid open, pulls a single white wipe from the pack, and holds it out. When I take it, our fingers brush I turn away, focusing entirely on the task. I clean the baby with deliberate, efficient strokes.
“Hand me the new one,” I instruct.
Josh slides the clean diaper across the marble.
I unfold it and flatten the back panel against my palm, and try to slide it straight under her kicking legs. The adhesive tabs catch on the fleece, folding the plastic in half beneath her right thigh.
I grab her left ankle and lift just enough to clear a path, angling the diaper to feed one corner beneath her lower back. She drops her heel hard, pinning it in place. The elastic edge twists as I try to push it through, the whole thing bunching beneath her spine.
My jaw clenches. I yank the diaper free again.
I am NOT asking for help.
I grip both sides of the diaper and go for a third attempt, straight down the center—
Josh steps in.
His forearm brushes my waist as he leans across me, his shoulder pressing lightly into mine, and he gently hooks his fingers around the baby’s ankles. He lifts her hips two inches off the blanket.
He doesn’t say a word. He just holds her steady while I slide the diaper flat against the fleece. The heat of his arm sits along my side. I fasten the left tab, then the right. They’re slightly crooked, the plastic bunching at her hip, but they hold.
Josh lowers her legs. He doesn’t step back. We end up shoulder-to-shoulder, the baby settled between us. His elbow rests against my forearm. I don’t shift away. I leave my arm where it is, staring down at the uneven tabs.
There is no practical reason for us to still be touching. I am a practical woman. Usually. We used to stand like this. Side by side at his kitchen counter, shoulders touching, doing nothing important. I had forgotten how easy it was.
Instead of asking him to move, I reach across him for the wipes. My arm brushes his jacket as I grab them, scoop up the old diaper, and turn toward the sink.
A harsh vibration rattles against the stone island.
Both of us freeze.
Josh’s phone is resting on the marble, inches from the baby’s head. The screen is glowing bright white, the vibration motor buzzing violently against the hard surface.
The noise slices right through the quiet. The baby jerks her head toward the sound, her eyes flying wide open. Josh reaches for the phone. He swipes his thumb across the glass, unlocking the screen.
The color drains from his face, and his shoulders drop two full inches. He grips the metal edge of his phone, not blinking as he reads the text a second time. His jaw locks so firmly that the muscle jumps beneath his ear.
He just stands absolutely still, staring at the glowing text.
I pick the baby up and drop the balled-up diaper into the trash can and wash my hand as well as I can while keeping the baby's hand away from the running water.
“Josh.”
He doesn’t look at me. His thumb hovers over the screen. His throat bobs in a hard, dry swallow. He lowers the phone slowly, letting it tap against the marble.
“The surgery,” he says. His voice is hollow, stripped of the low, rasping panic from the hallway. “There were complications.”
I stop wiping my hands.
He finally looks up. His dark eyes lock onto mine. And the weight of what he is about to say anchors my feet to the floor.
“They have to keep her sedated tonight,” he says quietly. “But rehab is going to take a minimum of fourteen days.”
I look at the baby, who is currently pressed against my side, one fist caught in my shirt.
I look at the digital clock on the oven.
My car to JFK leaves in eighteen hours.