21. Liv
Chapter twenty-one
Liv
Apparently, my body has chosen to be unreasonable.
Josh’s arm is no longer around me by the time we leave the coffee shop, but my shoulder has not caught up.
He is settling Iris into the stroller when I pull on my jacket. She makes one grumpy sound, before tucking in. “You have the bag?” he asks, holding the door open with his shoulder.
“Yes.”
“And the giraffe?”
The giraffe is sticking halfway out of the side pocket.
“The giraffe is considering escaping.”
Josh glances at the bag. “Bold.”
“Poorly advised.”
“For us, you mean.” I laugh.
“Definitely.” Josh smiles back.
I forgot he was this easy.
I tuck the giraffe all the way in before it can throw itself onto the sidewalk. We step outside into the cool air. Iris makes a soft sound, then settles, one leg kicked straight out of the blanket. The apartment is four blocks away.
Four blocks. Elevator. Apartment. Baby down. An end to our morning.
I take two steps toward the corner, then stop beside the stroller. Josh stops too. He does not ask why, which is another thing he has learned not to do.
I look at Iris, not at him. “If we keep moving, she might stay asleep.”
“Okay?” he says as he pushes the crosswalk button. “Any destination in mind?”
“Not really.”
He turns the stroller away from the apartment.
The sidewalk is busy enough that I can blame our pace on other people. I take a sip from my cup.
“You never do finish your coffee while actually in the coffee shop do you?” Josh asks.
“It’s too hot when they serve it to me.”
“You know they make something called iced coffee,” he smirks.
“Which I do order when it’s ninety degrees out, Mr. Bossy.”
“Mr. Bossy?” His mouth moves, not quite a smile, but close enough that I look away first. “You know that was a lame comeback, right?”
I bump his shoulder with mine.
At the next corner, a woman with a double stroller and a dog cuts across the curb ramp at the same time we do, saying “Sorry, sorry, sorry” to everyone and no one.
Josh’s hand comes to my lower back. He guides me out of the leash’s path and lets go as soon as we clear the curb.
My fingers tighten around my coffee cup.
“Sorry,” he says.
“For saving me from a poodle collision?”
“It was more of a leash hazard.”
“Good to know.”
A thin line of flat white has leaked onto the rim. Josh reaches into the stroller basket and pulls out a napkin.
Of course, he knows where the napkins are.
He hands it to me, and his fingers brush mine. I wipe the lid before I can meet his eyes again.
We keep walking, towards the river path. I smile. Our old jogging route.
This is the thing about Josh. He never pushes.
He almost kissed me in his kitchen. He showed me a book he kept for seven years. He told me he never stopped hoping. This morning he ordered my coffee, caught Iris before the whole shop turned around, and put his arm behind my chair.
Every time, he leaves the next move to me.
Pushing me. Pressuring me. That I can resist. This? He’s making it very hard to resist.
Now he is beside me with one hand on the stroller, giving me the exact amount of room I keep pretending to need.
A cab honks at the light.
Iris startles and kicks her other leg out of the blanket.
We stop and reach in at the same time. My hand lands on the blanket. His lands over mine.
People step past. Someone laughs near the corner. A bike bell rings twice.
One touch. One small spot.
I should pull my hand free. I do not.
Iris settles before either of us moves.
Josh lifts his hand first. “Blanket was slipping.”
“It was.”
A pause.
“Could have been serious,” he says.
“Extremely. Iris may kick the blanket away, but we are expected to fix that problem immediately.”
“We don’t want a return of—”
I put my hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it. Josh, don’t even joke about saying it. She could remember and wake up.”
Josh laughs, and he tries to talk through my hand. “Well, at least I would be dealing with a full-blown tantrum outside.”
He looks at me as I begin to drop my hand, and I make the mistake of looking back.
His hair is still a mess from the coffee shop.
That one dark piece falling forward near his temple.
I used to smooth it back when we were sitting on his couch and he was half asleep after a shift.
Back then, moving that piece of hair was easier than asking whether he was staying awake for me or for the pager.
My hand lifts back up to brush the hair off his face. I stop.
“We should keep moving,” I say.
“Yeah.” Josh adjusts his grip on the stroller handle and starts walking again.
He does not sound fooled.
The river path is quiet enough to walk side by side. Josh has one hand on the stroller. I have my coffee. Iris sleeps.
I am already imagining the next version of this morning.
Another Saturday.
Another walk.
Josh in a jacket, me with my keys in my hand, Iris older and kicking off one shoe on purpose.
The image comes so easily I have to take a drink of coffee.
It is not too hot now.
Josh glances over. “Do you really have anything in there?”
“Yes, Mr. Nosey. The temperature has entered a safe range.”
“Good.”
He is watching the path ahead, but his mouth gives him away.
I know that mouth. I know the shape it makes when he is trying not to laugh. I know the way it used to soften right before he kissed me.
When we had time to kiss.
I look at the river.
“Liv.”
I keep my eyes on the water.
“Ready to turn around?” he asks.
I am finally done with my coffee, so I toss my cup into the trash can. The morning has already lasted longer than I had let myself hope.
“Five more minutes.”
Josh looks at me for a second. His mouth softens.
“Okay.”
He turns us toward the longer path before I can take it back.
“You’re very agreeable this morning,” I say.
“I’m not stupid.”
I look at him.
He winks at me, then keeps his eyes on the path.
“When you offer me five more minutes, I take them.”
I am so busted.
Five minutes becomes more than five.
I take those too.
By the time we reach the building, Iris has started to wake. Not a cry yet. Josh picks her up, passes her into my arms, and opens the door.
Iris sighs against me. “Okay,” I tell her. “You are making a point.”
Josh looks back.
I pretend I was talking only to Iris.
He takes the diaper bag from my shoulder before the strap can slide down my arm, and hangs it from the stroller handle.
“Thanks,” I say.
He nods once.
The elevator doors close.
The mirror catches us before I can turn away.
Stroller in the corner. Coffee in the cupholder. Iris against me, one sock missing. Again. Josh beside me, his shoulder almost touching mine.
I look at the mirror and see what the nurse saw.
What the woman in the park saw.
What the barista saw.
Iris reaches up and hooks her fingers into my hair.
“Ow,” I say softly.
Josh steps closer and works Iris’s fist loose, one finger at a time. His thumb brushes my hair back from the place she caught it.
“She gets that from you,” he says.
My eyes go to his.
Busted. Again.
Josh unlocks the door, and I walk in with Iris still against my shoulder. I set her on the play mat along with the giraffe, who did not escape during the walk. She kicks once, offended by the floor, then finds the giraffe and forgives all of us.
I toe off my shoes near the door. Before I can bend, Josh picks them up and sets them beside his.
Mine. His.
Toes facing the door.
He sees me looking at them. “Trip hazard,” he says.
I press my lips together. “Of course.”
“The rug catches.”
“Noted.”
I go to the counter and open the laptop because the shoes are still by the door, the elevator mirror is still in my head, and I need something with rows.
The shift spreadsheet is still up from yesterday. Times, blocks of color, neat little boxes pretending life can be contained if I make the columns narrow enough.
Hospital shifts.
My work reentry.
Iris’s feeds.
I click into tomorrow.
Josh comes up behind me, not close enough to touch. Close enough that I know he is there.
“You don’t have to turn this into a schedule,” he whispers right next to my ear.