26. Josh
Chapter twenty-six
Josh
We pass the inspection.
Reyes says it like good news.
It is good news.
I stand by the door with Iris against my chest and wait for the win to feel like enough.
It doesn’t.
Maybe it can’t.
Not when half the systems Reyes just approved came from a woman in Chicago who may or may not have found the note I hid under her trail mix.
Five words.
I want five more minutes.
Iris sneezes against my shoulder.
“Good point,” I tell her.
She blinks at me like the sneeze was my fault.
I lock the door and stand there with her warm weight against my chest. Her fist is hooked in the collar of my shirt. One sock is on. One sock is gone.
The left one, of course.
Reyes checked the outlet covers, the formula storage, the crib, and the emergency numbers on the fridge. She asked about my work schedule, backup care, and my cousin’s recovery.
I answered every question.
I did not say the woman who made most of those answers possible is two hours away and probably still working.
Iris pulls at my collar.
“Yes,” I tell her. “We passed.”
She frowns.
“Hard to impress. I respect that.”
In the kitchen, the feeding log sits on the counter beside two clean bottles.
Liv’s handwriting fills half the pages.
Reyes liked the log. She liked the system. She liked the apartment that looks calm because Liv lived in it for fourteen days.
Iris kicks once against my stomach.
“You also helped,” I tell her. “You gave Reyes your suspicious face.”
Iris lifts her head, decides that was enough effort, and drops it against my chest.
“Strong work.”
The schedule is still taped to the fridge. The general notes are still there too.
Do not warm bottle past wrist-neutral.
Check giraffe before nap.
The apartment passed.
I want that to feel like a win.
Instead, it feels like standing in a room after the music stops.
I shift Iris higher. “Auntie Liv would be pleased.”
Auntie Liv.
I have said it all week. It seemed like the right name for a woman who held Iris at two in the morning, built a feeding log, called from a hotel room, and made my kitchen feel like somewhere I wanted to stand.
Auntie Liv is too small.
I do not have another name I am allowed to use yet.
Iris grabs my collar harder.
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
She makes a tired sound.
I check the time. Liv’s deposition started at eight this morning. She could be at dinner with the client by now. Or back at the hotel still working.
She FaceTimed last night.
I keep going back to that.
Her face on the screen. Too many questions. The way she said the room was quiet.
I should have told her I missed her.
Instead, I told her she could call if she wanted.
Iris pushes her face into my shirt and complains.
“Fair,” I say. “I also find me frustrating.”
I walk with her through the living room because standing still is not working.
The couch blanket is folded wrong over the arm. Liv folds it in thirds. I fold it into whatever shape happens when I am holding a baby and losing patience with fabric.
Her laptop is gone.
Her coffee mug is gone.
Her shoes are gone from beside the door.
But her suit is hanging in the guest room closet.
I picked it up from the dry cleaner this morning with Iris strapped to my chest. The woman behind the counter smiled when I handed over the ticket with Liv’s name on it.
Now the suit waits behind the guest room door.
A reason for Liv to come back.
A thin reason.
Still a reason.
I pause by the guest room.
“She has to come back for the suit,” I tell Iris.
Iris yawns.
“Yes. Your confidence overwhelms me.”
She rubs her face against my shirt.
I should feed her. Bath. Pajamas. Bed.
Keep moving through the steps.
That is what the last two weeks taught me. When in doubt, do the next thing that keeps the baby alive and less furious.
I warm a bottle and test it against my wrist.
Wrist-neutral.
Liv would be proud.
Or she would correct my angle and pretend that was not affection.
I sit with Iris in the rocker. She takes the bottle without drama, which feels suspicious. Her hand opens and closes against my shirt. The apartment dims around us as the sky turns darker outside the windows.
“You miss Reyes,” I tell her. “She was very official.”
Iris drinks.
“She liked the schedule. She liked the crib. She liked the emergency numbers.”
I pause.
“She liked Liv’s system.”
Iris blinks slowly.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
The bottle empties. I shift Iris to my shoulder and pat her back. She lets out a burp that would shame a grown man.
“Strong finish.”
She settles against me.
I walk her toward the window. A cab honks somewhere below. Someone laughs on the sidewalk. Life keeps doing what it does.
I think about the paper bag.
The note under the trail mix.
I don’t even know if she found it. Maybe it is still folded at the bottom of the bag, five words waiting under crumbs and work.
One more thing I sent out without knowing if it reached her.
Iris makes a sound against my neck.
“I know,” I say.
She fusses again, small and tired.
“I don’t want her to go either.”
Iris shifts against me, her cheek warm through my shirt.
My throat tightens. I look down at the top of her head, at the fine dark hair that refuses to lie flat.
“I never wanted her to leave.”
There it is.
Seven years late, said to a baby with one sock missing and no idea what I just told her.
After a minute, she fusses again.
“I know,” I say, softer. “Bed.”
She fights the sleep sack. I get both arms in, then one arm out, then both arms in again. She glares at me through most of it.
“This is not my best work,” I tell her. “But we are getting through it.”
By the time I lower her into the crib, she is too tired to argue. Her fist curls near her cheek, and the giraffe is tucked where Liv puts it, just outside the crib on the table where Iris can see it.
I wait for the protest.
Nothing.
She sighs once and goes still.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I needed the win.”
I back out of the nursery and check my phone.
No missed call. No text.
That is fine.
She has a deposition. She has a client. She has a flight tomorrow, probably.
I turn away from the guest room before I can keep looking at it.
The kitchen light is still on, so I rinse the bottle and set the pieces in Liv’s system. When I’m done, I stay at the sink with my hands on the counter.
Too quiet.
The trash under the sink is not full.
It is full enough.
“Good,” I say to no one.
I tie the bag, replace the liner, and carry the trash to the door.
Anything to have a reason to move.
I open it.
Liv is standing there.
For one full second, I do not understand what I am seeing.
She is not in Chicago. She is not on a screen. She is here.
Her hair has slipped loose around her face. Her blouse is wrinkled. Her coat is open, one side caught under the strap of her work bag. Her suitcase stands behind her, tilted on one wheel like she stopped too fast.
She is breathing hard.
One hand is braced against the doorframe.
The other grips my paper bag.
The trash bag pulls at my hand. I let it drop to the floor.
Her eyes move over my face, quick and unguarded.
Everything in me goes still.
My hand tightens on the doorframe because if I do not hold on to something, I am going to reach for her.
“Liv.”
Her eyes lift back to mine.
“You’re here.”
Brilliant.
Her mouth moves, almost a smile, but it does not quite make it.
“How are you here?” I ask. “Why…?”
She looks at me for one long second. Then her eyes drop to my mouth.
“You know why I’m here.”