23. Liv
Chapter twenty-three
Liv
The Reyes inspection is in less than forty-eight hours.
He rearranged his hospital shifts for it. Built the next two days around making this apartment look like the kind of place where a social worker could stand in the doorway, look at Iris, and believe he was ready for a longer guardianship, if needed.
And I told him I wasn’t ready for this, us, to be moving so fast.
Now the reminder sits on both our phones.
Josh is still close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. His hands are at his sides. He’s not crowding me. But he isn’t going to let my last statement disappear either.
My phone buzzes again.
“We should probably turn off the alert,” I manage to mutter. “So our phones don’t keep going off.”
Except this isn’t the Reyes alert.
Graham.
My boss does not call during anyone’s PTO, unless something has gone wrong or someone with too much money has decided to make his problem our problem.
I stare at the caller ID and run through the most likely scenario. A client meltdown. Out of state meetings. Emergency filing.
For one second, the kitchen gives me room to breathe.
Josh sees the caller ID too. “You should answer.”
His voice is quiet. Not hurt.
That almost makes it worse.
I slide my thumb across the screen. “Hi, Graham.”
“Liv.” No greeting. Bad sign. “I need you in Chicago tomorrow morning.”
My brain moves before the rest of me does. Calendar. Flights. Client. Court schedule. Iris. Reyes. Josh.
“Tomorrow morning,” I repeat.
Josh shifts his attention to Iris on the play mat. He gives me the privacy of looking away, which somehow feels less private than if he had stared right at me.
“Caldwell deposition,” Graham says. “Client is unhappy. Very unhappy. I need the best person in the room.”
Which means me.
It also means there is no clean way to say no.
I turn toward the counter and reach for the nearest pen, though there is nothing in front of me to write on. “How long?”
“Two days,” Graham says. “Maybe less if you scare them fast. Longer if they fight us.”
“I don’t scare people.”
“Liv.”
“Fine. I make them uncomfortable in a calm voice.”
He exhales, and I hear the tight smile in it. “Can you make it work?”
Behind me, Josh lifts Iris from the mat. She kicks once, offended by the change in view, before settling against his chest like she has decided he is acceptable furniture.
“I need to check one thing,” I say.
Graham goes quiet. That is not his favorite sentence.
Josh carries Iris toward the kitchen sink and sets a clean bottle on the counter. “Okay, Miss Iris,” he says, soft enough that I am not sure he means for me to hear. “We are going to pretend I know what I’m doing, and you are going to pretend you don’t judge my technique.”
Iris blows a bubble.
“Fair,” he says.
My shoulders let go.
Josh will be fine.
Not because Iris has become predictable or that being a solo caregiver for two days is easy.
Because Josh has become this steady, one-handed, bottle-narrating man who can hold a baby, check water temperature, track inspection details, and still know when to stop moving toward me.
And I was supposed to be in Barcelona right now. Across an ocean, ten hours away if the flight lined up perfectly. More if it didn’t.
If I had gone, there may not have been a way to get to Chicago before the client decided the firm had failed them.
Instead, I am here.
Chicago is two hours away.
Close enough to be useful.
The thought lands with such force I almost trust it.
Maybe this is not running. Maybe this is not the universe handing me an exit.
Maybe it is just work. A real client. A real problem. A real need.
“Liv?” Graham says.
“Yes. I can make it work.”
“Good. I’ll have Jenna send the flight options.”
“I’ll take the earliest one that gets me there by nine.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
The call ends. My shoulders drop the rest of the way.
Josh looks up. I put the phone facedown on the counter. “I have to fly to Chicago.”
His hand stills on the bottle for half a second.
I catch it.
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning. Early.”
“For how long?”
“Two days. Maybe more.”
His gaze stays on mine. “Okay.”
Just that.
Okay.
No accusation. No don’t go. No, you said this, us, was moving too fast and now you’re leaving.
No reminder that Reyes is coming and Iris is here and we have a handful of days left in an arrangement that stopped feeling temporary sometime between the first bottle and the second cup of coffee.
It would be easier if he pushed back.
Then I could argue. Work. Client. Deposition. All the clean reasons.
Instead, he looks down at Iris. “Your legal counsel has been summoned.”
Iris makes a wet clicking sound.
“I agree,” he says. “Poor planning.”
My laugh catches me off guard.
“I’ll help prep before I leave,” I say.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
His eyes come back to mine.
“I’m going to check flights,” I say.
“Okay.”
“And make a list.”
His mouth moves like he is trying not to smile.
I point at him. “Not that kind of list.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was thinking it privately.”
“Think quieter.”
That earns the smile.
I take my phone and walk toward the guest room before his smile can do any more damage.
I grab my Tumi from the closet, pull it onto the bed and unzip it. It should be a normal sound, but my hand stops halfway around the case.
No. This is not the same.
Last time, this was the sound before we stopped being us. Last time, this was the sound of me taking my things back to my own apartment.
This time I am packing for a deposition.
A real client. A real problem. A real need.
I have my return ticket already.
I open the case all the way and start with work clothes. Black pants. Cream blouse. Backup blouse. Sleep shirt. Flats. Chargers.
I fold the first blouse along the seams, smooth the sleeves, and lay it in the left side of the case.
The second blouse lands on top without being folded.
I stare at it. Then I leave it there.
From the hallway, Josh says, “Iris, we do not negotiate with socks.”
Iris shrieks.
Not cries. Shrieks. Pure outrage.
“She feels strongly about socks,” I call.
“She feels strongly about everything.”
“Maybe she hates socks,” I respond.
“If that's the case, she should stop kicking them off and then acting surprised.”
I press my lips together and look down at the open suitcase. Two days. I can do that.
I walk back into the hall. Josh is on the living room rug with Iris on her back in front of him. One sock is in his hand. The other has vanished, which means it is in whatever baby dimension takes small things go when adults are tired.
Iris kicks both feet.
Josh holds up the sock. “This is not oppression, Iris. This is warmth.”
Iris kicks again.
“I know,” he says. “Very moving argument.”
I lean against the hallway frame. “You know she can’t understand you.”
He looks up. “That’s what she wants me to think.”
Iris turns her head toward me and grins, all gums, like I have been gone for weeks. I sit down on the rug.
“Hi, baby girl.”
She waves both arms and I take her from Josh.
“I’m going to miss you,” I tell her.
The words just spill out. Josh looks at me.
I pick up Iris’s loose hand and let her fingers curl around mine. “Even when you judge me for being slow with the bottle.”
She gives me a damp, open-mouthed smile.
“Especially then,” I say.
Josh’s shoulder is close. Not touching. Close enough that I know where he is without looking.
I hand Iris back before I can make the goodbye worse.
“I’m going to check the diaper caddy.”
Josh rises with Iris against his shoulder. “We’ll be okay.”
I nod too fast. “I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
That is why I said yes.
Okay, that is not the whole reason I said yes.
I need to breathe in a room where no one is this easy to want.
By eight, I have packed half the suitcase and booked the flight. I run through the deposition outfit in my head.
Black suit.
Ivory shell.
Low heels.
Lucky suit.
My stomach drops. The suit is not here.
The dry cleaner. The one by our building, because I dropped it off over a week ago after Iris spit up on the sleeve.
I walk to the living room. Josh is on the couch now, Iris asleep against his chest, his hand covering most of her back. The sight slows me down.
He looks up from his phone. “Everything okay?”
“My lucky suit is at the cleaners.”
“Okay.”
“I need it for Chicago.”
“When do they open?”
“Seven, too late. My car is picking me up around 4:30.”
“Ouch, that’s early.” Josh rubs his jaw.
I hold the dry-cleaning ticket between two fingers. My name is printed across the top.
“I’ll pick it up when I get back,” I say.
“Can you really go to Chicago without it,” he asks.
I roll my eyes with the exact amount of drama the question deserves. “I have other suits.”
“But not the lucky one.”
I can’t tell if he is teasing me, or flirting with me.
I look at the ticket. “Could you pick it up tomorrow?" I asked. "Keep it here until I get back.”
His eyes stay on mine.
It is a simple ask. Dry cleaning, ticket, suit, closet.
Except I hear myself say it.
Keep it here until I get back.
Until I get back.
Josh does not move. Iris sleeps against his chest, one cheek pressed into his shirt.
“Of course,” he says.
I cross the room and set the ticket on the coffee table. His gaze drops to it.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
I wait for him to say something else.
A joke. A soft smile. One more careful line that makes my ribs tighten.
He gives me none of those.
He just sits there with Iris safe against him and my return folded into a dry-cleaning ticket on the table between us.
I picture the suit hanging in Josh’s guest room and smile, then go back to the guest room to finish packing.
The apartment has evening sounds now. I know which floorboard gives near the hall. I know how Josh moves when Iris is asleep and how he moves when she is close to it. I know that if I leave my shoes near the door, he will set them beside his and pretend it is about safety.
From the living room, Josh says something low to Iris. I can’t make out the words, only the tone. Quiet enough not to wake her.
I pull the zipper closed.
I hear it.
So does Josh.
A second later, he is in the doorway.