25. Liv
Chapter twenty-five
Liv
The Chicago hotel room is exactly the kind of room I used to love.
Clean desk. Smooth white duvet. One suitcase by the dresser. Nothing out of place. No one needing me.
No dishes in the sink. No bottle parts drying beside the coffee maker. No baby monitor on the counter. No Josh moving quietly through the kitchen while Iris fights sleep in the next room.
I should feel focused. Instead, I keep looking at the paper bag beside my laptop.
The deposition prep is open on my laptop. The witness outline. Caldwell. Timeline. Prior sworn statement. Inconsistency on page seventeen.
I read the same line twice.
Then a third time.
My phone is facedown next to the laptop. I turn it over and check the time. Josh should have Iris down by now, unless she has decided she has better things to do.
I set the phone down.
Pick it up again.
Reyes is tomorrow. I told him I would FaceTime tonight. That was a plan, not a cry for help from a woman alone in a hotel room with too many perfectly placed pillows.
I tap his name. It rings twice.
His face fills the screen.
He is in the kitchen, wearing a gray T-shirt, hair still doing whatever it wants.
“Hey,” he says.
And there it is. The real reason I called.
“Hi.” My voice comes out too quick, so I add, “I wanted to make sure you had everything for Reyes.”
His mouth moves.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Look pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not pleased with myself.”
“You are a little pleased.”
His smile shows up. Small. Tired. Warm enough to make me look down.
“I’m glad you called,” he says.
Behind him, something rustles.
“Is that Iris?” I ask.
He glances down. “She is fighting sleep with both fists and one sock.”
“Still just the one sock?”
“Every time. At this point, I respect the commitment,” he says.
He shifts the phone, and Iris comes into view against his shoulder, cheek mashed into his shirt, eyes half-open.
“Hey baby girl,” I whisper.
Her eyes move toward the screen. One hand lifts, then drops against Josh’s chest.
“She looks tired,” I say.
“She is tired. She also feels sleep should make a better offer.”
“That seems fair.”
Josh looks down at her. “Your counsel agrees.”
Iris makes a small sound.
My hand tightens around the phone.
For one second, I want to reach through the screen and smooth Iris’s hair off her forehead.
I clear my throat. “Okay. Inspection folder?”
“By the door.”
“Printed schedule?”
“Fridge.”
“Bottle log?”
“Counter.”
“Outlet covers?”
“Still on the outlets.”
“Cabinet latch under the sink?”
“Latched.”
“Emergency numbers?”
“On the fridge, next to the schedule, under the magnet that says I do not have enough coffee for this.”
“That magnet predates me.”
“I never said it didn’t.”
I lean back in the desk chair. “And the smoke detector?”
“Liv.”
“What?”
“I’ve got it.”
He says it gently. I look down at my notes.
I still have questions. They can wait.
“I know you do.”
He is quiet for a second. Iris sighs against him, one tiny sound that makes my throat tighten.
“You can just say you wanted to see Iris,” he says.
“I wanted to see Iris.”
His eyes stay on mine through the screen.
The silence does the rude work of adding the rest.
“And check the folder,” I say.
“Of course.”
“And make sure you don’t store knives in the crib.”
“I moved them to the bassinet.”
“Good. Shows growth.”
His laugh is quiet, careful around Iris. I press my thumb against the edge of my phone. “How was she today?”
“Good. Mad at her left sock. Deeply moved by the ceiling fan. Briefly betrayed by a bottle she had been screaming for.”
“That sounds like a full day.”
“She has range.”
I smile.
Josh shifts Iris higher. “How’s Chicago?”
I look at the room. The beige wall. The neat desk. The room-service menu with its clean black font.
“Fine.”
“That bad?”
“I didn’t say bad.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Fine is what you say when you don’t want to say the rest.”
I look past the laptop, toward the nightstand.
“It’s quiet,” I say.
His thumb stills on Iris’s back. The smile leaves his face slowly. He knows what I am not saying.
“Yeah,” he says.
“I should let you get her down,” I say.
He shifts Iris higher. “Early start?”
“Deposition at eight.”
“Then you should sleep.”
“So should you.”
I should let him. Instead, I keep the phone in my hand.
His thumb moves once over Iris’s back. “You can call tomorrow.”
“If Reyes has questions.”
His eyes stay on mine. “If you want.”
I look down at my laptop. “Good night, Josh.”
“Good night, Liv.”
I wait one beat too long.
So does he.
I end the call.
The room goes silent.
The air unit hums. My laptop waits on page seventeen. Somewhere two hours away, Josh is probably walking Iris through the kitchen, telling her one sock is not a long-term solution.
I am here with a clean desk and too many pillows.
I set the phone beside the laptop.
The paper bag sits at my elbow, folded at the top. I pull it toward me.
The first thing I see is the trail mix. Dark chocolate pieces, because apparently I am not as subtle as I thought. Then the mango. Green label. Not orange. Not the brand I bought once and complained about for three full minutes while Josh stood in the kitchen and ate it anyway.
The sparkling water, with a napkin tucked around it.
Of course he packed a napkin.
There is a folded square of paper at the bottom. I unfold it.
Five words.
I want five more minutes.
For a second, I am twenty-eight again, holding a pen over the front cover of Longitude and thinking time was the only thing standing between us.
For when we finally have more time.
I gave that book to a man I thought I might have a whole life with. Then I spent the next year counting the hours his job took from us instead of asking what we could build with the hours we had.
We were both waiting for more time. Neither of us thought to start with five minutes.
Until this week.
Until Iris fell asleep between us on a path by the water, and I asked him for the only thing I knew how to ask for.
Five more minutes.
Not because five minutes was enough.
Because it was a place to start.
I look down at the note.
And now he is asking too.
He wants more than five minutes.
So do I.
The thought should scare me more than it does.
Maybe it will later.
Right now, all I can hear is his voice saying, You can call if you want.
Not if Reyes has questions.
Not if Iris needs something.
If I want.
The hotel room is still perfect. Bed made. Desk clean. Shoes lined up by the dresser. No mess. No baby. No man in the kitchen pretending not to smile at me.
This is the life I built after Josh. It wasn't wrong.
It got me through seven years.
It just is not enough, anymore.
I fold the note, along the same creases Josh made.
My deposition prep is still open on the laptop.
So is the airline app.
For a long second, I look at both.
Then I reach for the mouse.