22. Josh
Chapter twenty-two
Josh
“You don’t have to turn this into a schedule.”
The words come out low, close to her ear, before I decide whether saying them is smart. Liv goes still with one hand on the laptop and the other beside the trackpad. It is not smart.
Behind us, Iris kicks on the play mat, and the giraffe rattles once against the floor. Liv does not turn around.
“The schedule has coverage gaps,” she says.
Her voice is even.
I look at the spreadsheet over her shoulder. Rows, times, names, color-coded blocks. Hospital shifts. Iris’s feeds. The neatest possible version of a life that has not been neat for almost two weeks. The cursor blinks in tomorrow’s evening slot, waiting for a name.
I recognize that move. I have washed clean bottles and stood at this counter with a sponge in my hand when there was nothing left in the sink. Liv opened the spreadsheet because the morning got too close.
“We have coverage gaps,” I say.
“Yes.”
“We also had five more minutes.”
Her fingers shift on the laptop. Not much. Enough.
“Those are different things.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But you opened the spreadsheet right after.”
She turns slowly, until her back is to the counter.
“You gave me small pieces all morning,” I say. “Then we came upstairs, and you turned them into rows.”
“Josh.”
Her saying my name like that should be enough to make me step back and let her have the exit. I know all the exits in this apartment now. The hallway. The guest room. Iris. The laptop. A feed that does not need to happen yet.
For seven years I let her take every exit because I thought my life had already asked too much of her. It was easier than admitting I was afraid to ask for anything myself.
Look how well that turned out.
“You asked to turn the stroller away from the apartment,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “Because Iris was asleep.”
“She was asleep in the coffee shop.”
“Movement helps keep her asleep.”
“You bumped my shoulder when I called you out on the coffee.”
“Because you were being smug.”
“It felt like flirting.”
Her mouth opens, then closes, and there it is. A tell with nowhere to go.
“I was not flirting with you over beverage temperature.”
“You called me Mr. Bossy.”
“You were being bossy.”
“I was talking about iced coffee.”
“You brought up iced coffee in a tone.”
“In a tone?”
“Yes.”
I take one step closer.
One is enough.
Liv’s hand slides off the counter and finds the edge of the laptop instead. Her thumb rests against the corner, but she does not close it.
“You let me put my hand on your back at the curb,” I say.
“I was grateful you protected me from a poodle collision.”
Her eyes hold mine for half a second before they cut to the play mat. Iris has the giraffe by one leg and is waving it like she is trying to flag down help.
There is no help coming from the giraffe.
Liv looks back at me. “You are making a list.”
“Yes.”
“Of sidewalk events.”
“Of things I don’t want to pretend I missed.”
That lands. I see it near her mouth, in the small change most people miss. I have been fluent in Liv for ten years. Seven of them were silent, and I still recognize her language.
“Such as,” she says.
“You asked me for five more minutes.”
“Iris was still asleep.”
“You asked for five more minutes after your coffee was gone.”
A pause. “That is not admissible.”
“It is to me.”
She looks away first, and the old part of me wants to soften it. Give her a joke. Give her room. Let her turn this back into a schedule and pretend I did not see the way she looked at us in the elevator mirror.
I could let her have the schedule. Let her make it practical. Let her put the morning somewhere neither of us has to touch it.
I did that for seven years.
I told myself my schedule was the problem. My chaos was the problem. The hospital was the problem.
All true.
But I remember what not asking cost me.
Pushing her might be a risk.
Letting her go again is not an option I can live with.
I take one careful step toward her, then stop.
There is still space between us.
Enough for her to move past me if she wants to.
She doesn’t.
Her hand moves behind her and finds the counter edge. She grips it.
I still. My hands stay where they are, hanging at my side.
I almost pushed too hard.
I don’t step back. I don’t step closer. I let her watch me stay feet planted.
Liv looks at my hand.
“I’m not trying to corner you,” I say.
“You’re standing very close.”
“I know.”
“You’re also still making a list.”
“Yes.”
Her mouth twitches, but it does not become a smile. “That seems like something I should object to.”
“You can.”
“I object.”
“Overruled.”
Her eyes come back to mine, and there she is. The woman from the river path. The one who put her hand over my mouth because I was about to say the thing that might wake the baby. The one who said five more minutes and then let me take more than five.
I keep my hands still.
“You didn’t pull your hand back when mine landed over yours,” I say.
“We both had the good instinct to fix the blanket.”
“It was touching your hand.”
“It was also touching the blanket.”
“I know.” I breathe once. “I’m not confused about the blanket.”
Her chin lifts. “What are you confused about?”
I should have a better answer. Something careful. Something that makes this sound less like I have been standing at the edge of my own life all morning.
I don’t have that.
“How to do this." I say. "Us.”
Her face changes. No joke. No objection. No clean lawyer phrasing.
“I know you,” I say.
Her eyes sharpen. “Josh.”
“I do.”
“You know parts of me.”
“I know some of you,” I correct. “I understand the part that opens a spreadsheet when she needs some space.”
Her hand tightens again, and I stop there.
Liv looks toward Iris, and I look too.
Iris is fine. Awake, kicking, one sock gone, giraffe in hand. There is no rescue there, and Liv knows it.
She looks back at me.
“Your shoes are beside mine,” I say.
She blinks. “That was you.”
“Yes.”
“You said it was a trip hazard.”
“It was.” I hold her eyes. “I also liked seeing them beside mine.”
The words leave before I can fix them.
Liv’s eyes widen.
I liked her shoes beside mine. I liked her walking into my apartment with Iris against her shoulder like she had done it a hundred times. I liked the coffee and the poodle and the blanket and the five minutes. I liked the way the morning looked before she opened the spreadsheet.
She opened the spreadsheet because logistics were safer than answering what five more minutes meant.
I look at the spreadsheet, then back at her.
“I can’t keep pretending I don’t see it.”
Her throat moves. “See what?”
“This morning,” I say. “The coffee. The chair. Five more minutes. Your shoes beside mine.”
Her eyes go toward the laptop.
“You gave me small pieces all morning,” I say. “But when we came upstairs and you opened a spreadsheet.”
“Because we have things to figure out.”
“I know.”
“I have work Monday.”
“I know.”
“You have the hospital.”
“I know.”
“Iris needs—”
“I know.”
The last one comes out rough.
I take one breath through my nose and make my hands stay open. “I know,” I say again, softer.
Iris kicks the play mat, and Liv’s face shifts.
There it is.
Work. Hospital. Iris. Monday.
All the true things she can step behind.
“I’m not asking you to solve Monday right now,” I say. “I’m asking you not to use Monday to erase this morning.”
Her hand leaves the counter. For one second I think she is going to move past me. She doesn’t. She puts her palm flat against the fridge behind her instead, like she needs to know where the room ends.
I stay still. There isn’t a lot of space between.
“You’re making this sound simple,” she says.
The words are quiet. They could mean I am pushing too hard. They could mean I am reading this wrong. They could mean she wants this and hates how easy I just made it sound.
All of it is possible.
“I know it isn’t simple,” I say. “I’m saying complicated doesn’t mean wrong.”
That surprises her. I see it before she can hide it.
“I know what I see,” I say. “I know I spent seven years thinking the kindest thing I could do was not ask you for more.”
Her lips part.
“I was wrong.”
Liv does not move. I do not move. My hands stay quiet at my sides.
“I don’t know the right speed,” I say. “I don’t know how much to ask for. I don’t know how to do this without scaring you, or missing it, or making the same mistake from the other side.”
Her eyes shine, but no tear falls.
“But I know what today was.”
She looks down for half a second, then back up. “What was it?”
There are easier answers. A walk. A good morning. A baby nap. A lapse in judgment. A spreadsheet problem.
“It was you choosing more time with me.”
Liv’s fingers curl against the fridge, and for one second neither of us moves.
Finally, she says it.
“I wasn’t ready for it to be this fast.”
Nine words. No defense around them. No joke. No spreadsheet. Just the truth, sitting between us.
My phone goes off on the counter.
Liv’s follows half a second later.
On the laptop, a notification banner drops over the open spreadsheet.
REYES : Follow-up inspection required.
Neither of us moves.