13. Liv
Chapter thirteen
Liv
His hand is light around my wrist.
“Liv. Wait.”
My eyes drop to his hand. He lets go as soon as they do.
“I didn’t correct her.”
My hand stays on the door handle. “I noticed.”
“Neither did you,” he replies.
“What did you want me to say?” I ask. “That I am not your wife?”
From the back seat, Iris makes a small sound.
Josh holds my gaze for one more second, then looks toward the back seat.
At first, I am annoyed by the interruption.
Then I am grateful, which is worse.
Josh opens the rear passenger door. He lifts Iris from the car seat. Her face turns into the collar of his jacket without protest. She’s been drowsy since before we left the hospital, and the car finished it.
I pull the diaper bag from the footwell and loop the strap over my shoulder. The car seat stays. The stroller stays in the trunk. I can get the stroller later.
We walk to the elevator.
Josh presses the call button with his elbow, both hands still on Iris. Inside, the doors close on the garage, and I watch the floor display because I am not looking at his face. I watch the floor display.
G2 to L to 1. His hand spread wide across Iris’s back. The careful bend of his wrist beneath her head. The dark sleeve of his jacket bunched against her cheek.
She is so small against him.
Josh shifts her higher without waking her, one smooth adjustment, and her whole body settles. No complaint. No working up to one. Just a soft exhale into his collar.
It takes me longer to get her settled like that.
I look back at the numbers over the door. I count the remaining floors. Counting floors does not require me to decide what to do with the fact that Josh Miller can quiet a baby and unsettle me with the same pair of hands.
When we reach the apartment, I set the diaper bag in its corner while Josh carries Iris down the hall. Before he gets her settled, I grab the monitor from the nursery dresser and carry it to the kitchen counter.
From the hallway, I hear the careful stages of the most dangerous operation in infant care: putting down a sleeping baby and keeping them asleep. The hinge of the crib, the creak of the mattress pad, and then the brief pause before Iris objects or doesn’t.
I lean into the doorway. Iris is down, eyes closed, one fist still hooked in Josh’s jacket.
He doesn’t move.
He stays bent over her until her fingers loosen on their own. He eases the fabric free one thread at a time and tucks her hand back against her chest.
I lean into the doorway. “For the record,” I whisper, “your tiny guest seems to be enjoying her accommodations.”
Josh glances over his shoulder at me, his hand still inside the pack-n-play.
“I’ll let management know,” he whispers.
His eyes stay on mine.
Iris does not respond.
He looks back at Iris, waits one more breath, and slides his hand free. She doesn’t stir.
Josh straightens and turns toward the doorway.
I should already be out of it.
I am not.
Josh stops in front of me, close enough that I have to tip my chin a fraction to keep looking at him.
My question is still between us.
What did you want me to say?
Josh’s gaze moves over my face.
“I didn’t answer you,” he whispers.
“No.”
“Do you want me to?”
Yes.
No.
I want a smaller question.
Are we trying again?
Do you want me in your life once Iris leaves?
I want him to ask for one step.
Wife is too large. Wife has years inside it. Wife has keys and rings and holidays and a hundred mornings we have not earned yet.
I don't want to hear that he wanted me to correct her.
I shake my head once, before he can give me either answer.
Iris sighs in her sleep, and I step back. I step back before I can change my mind.
---
The group chat has seventeen unread messages. I open it while Iris sleeps.
Samantha sent another photo of the LIV + SANGRIA sign. Same crooked handwriting. She has crossed out SANGRIA and written JOSH in red marker.
Below it: “Fixed it for you.”
Nadia
Sam.
Samantha
What. I’m not wrong.
Nadia
You’re not wrong. But let her get there.
I start typing. There’s nothing to get to. I'm helping him with a baby. We have a system. It’s temporary.
I read it back. Every sentence is true. None of them are honest.
I delete the whole thing and lock my phone.
---
At the kitchen threshold, he stops long enough to look at the bottles lined up by the sink.
“For tomorrow morning,” he says quietly. “We should get them ready.”
“Right.”
I step in beside him.
He reaches for the bottles like they are the reason we came in here.
Maybe they are.
He takes the first two from beside the sink and lines them up on the left side of the counter.
The side I use for pre-wash because it keeps the clean rack clear.
I never told him.
He reaches for the next one and turns on the water.
I move in beside him, and we fall into the routine we have built over five evenings. Dirty pieces on the left. Clean pieces on the rack. His hand passing rinsed parts over. Mine finding the next component without looking.
We have a routine.
Which is a problem.
I pull the second bottle back.
“Wait.” I turn it toward the window light. There is a faint film near the base — probably heat residue from the warmer, possibly nothing. I run the brush around the interior again and hold it up to check.
Josh waits with the next one in his hand.
No comment.
No rush.
Just waiting while I make very sure a clean bottle is clean.
I set it on the rack.
“About what the nurse said.” I put the brush down before I can start on the same bottle again. “We should probably be careful about public spaces, so people don’t make assumptions.”
He stops washing.
Water runs over his hand, while he looks down into the sink. He sets the bottle down. Turns off the water.
For a second, he stays facing the sink, both hands braced on the edge.
Then he turns toward me.
“Is that what you’re worried about?” A pause. “Public assumptions?”
He does not move back.
I reach for the bottle brush. My hand stops halfway there, changes direction, and slips into my jacket pocket. To retrieve my pen.
One click, then another.
His eyes drop to the pen. He knows me long enough to know exactly what the pen means. He looks back at my face.
“It’s a reasonable precaution,” I say.
He says nothing.
He just looks at me.
My hand moves toward the brush again, then stops. There is nothing left to clean.
The pen clicks once more.
Josh reaches over and takes it from my hand.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His thumb brushes the side of my finger as he slides the pen free.
He sets it beside the sink.
I leave it there.
Josh does not step back.
Neither do I.
The kitchen is too quiet now, without the water running or the brush against plastic.
He takes one step closer.
One is enough.
I shift back and the counter catches me at the hips.
Josh stops close enough that I can see the small curl behind his ear, the one that never lies flat when he’s been running his hands through it.
I used to smooth it down with my thumb.
My hand starts to lift.
I stop it.
His hand comes down on the counter beside my hip.
The other stays at his side.
He does not touch me.
He doesn't have to.
His eyes go to my mouth.
Mine go to his.
The monitor shrieks.