28. Liv
Chapter twenty-eight
Liv
Iknow we need to sleep.
I also know Josh is standing close enough for me to feel his breath near my temple, and the guest room door is open behind me, and my suitcase is just inside the door, and none of those facts are helping me want to stop kissing him.
“We should get some sleep,” he says.
He is right.
I hate that.
“Probably,” I say.
His mouth curves. “Strong agreement.”
“It is the best I can offer under the circumstances.”
“The circumstances being?”
I look at his mouth.
His smile fades.
“That,” I say.
For one second, neither of us moves.
Then he leans down and kisses me again. Brief. Not enough.
Definitely not enough.
When he pulls back, his hand stays at my waist for one extra breath before he lets go.
So, I step closer to him, rise on my toes, and kiss him once more.
Then step into the guest room. When I turn back, Josh is still there.
“Good night,” I say.
“Good night, Liv.”
He does not reach for me again.
I close the door, but I do not move away from it.
For a long time, I stand in the dark with my fingers resting against the wood, exactly where he would be if the door were open.
Finally, I get ready for bed in a room with clean sheets, in an apartment I left and came back to.
***
In the morning, Iris makes one small sound through the monitor, and I am out of bed before the second sound.
The apartment is still gray with early light. Josh’s door is mostly closed. The kitchen is quiet. I stand in the hall and let myself feel where I am.
Iris squeaks again.
“I’m coming,” I whisper.
She is in the crib, on her back, one fist near her cheek. Her eyes are open, serious and accusing, like she has been waiting to file a report.
“Good morning, baby girl.”
Her arms lift.
My heart does something foolish.
I pick her up, warm and wiggly in her sleep sack. She tucks her face near my neck and makes a sound that feels like trust, though it is probably gas.
I choose trust.
“You and I have a lot to discuss,” I tell her softly. “First, your sock policy.”
She kicks both feet.
“No comment. Interesting.”
I carry her to the changing table. The diaper caddy is still stocked. The wipes are where I left them. The pear onesie is folded in the second stack.
I change her, free her from the sleep sack, and snap her into the onesie. One sock is already missing from the drawer somehow, which feels like Iris planning ahead.
By the time I lift her against my shoulder, Josh is standing in the nursery doorway.
Bare feet. Dark T-shirt. Hair flat on one side and impossible on the other.
He just looks. At me.
And just like that, I am fully awake.
The room goes quiet except for Iris breathing against me.
“Hi,” I say.
His eyes move from me to Iris.
Then back to me.
He crosses the room.
No good morning. No question. No careful testing of what last night meant after sleep and daylight. He cups my face and kisses me.
Certain.
Slow enough that my hand tightens around Iris on instinct and then loosens when Josh’s other hand comes to Iris’s back, steadying both of us.
Iris allows this for three seconds before her hand shoots up and pats Josh’s cheek. Once. Twice. Harder than necessary.
Josh breaks the kiss against my mouth.
I laugh.
He looks down at Iris. “Excuse me.”
She pats him again.
“I see you have concerns.”
“She’s used to being consulted.”
“That’s true.” He looks gravely at Iris. “My apologies.”
Iris grabs his shirt.
Josh takes her from me and lifts her high enough to press his mouth against her stomach. She shrieks with delight, and the sound fills the nursery.
He does it again, and she kicks both legs.
I laugh so hard I have to brace one hand on the changing table.
“You are encouraging her,” I say.
“She gave feedback. I adjusted.”
“She is going to expect this level of service.”
“She already does.”
He settles her against his chest and looks at me over the top of her head. His face is still soft from sleep, and his hair a mess.
But his eyes are different.
I have not seen hope on Josh’s face in years.
“I was about to give her a bottle,” I say.
“I’ll get it.”
“I can—”
“I know.”
He kisses my forehead as he passes me.
I stand in the nursery alone, hand against the changing table, and breathe. I like that I am already part of his morning.
Josh warms the bottle while I fold the sleep sack. Iris watches him from his arm, deeply invested in breakfast.
On the couch, he sits and pats the cushion beside him.
I go.
He hands Iris to me, then puts his arm around my shoulders. I settle against his side with Iris in my arms, her bottle angled just right.
Josh watches the bottle for half a second. “Wrist-neutral?”
“Obviously.”
“Good.”
“Do not inspect my technique.”
“I would never.”
His mouth touches the side of my head.
I close my eyes.
Iris drinks. Josh’s arm is warm around me. The couch blanket is folded badly under my knee. Morning light sits on the floor in a pale square.
Nothing about this looks like the life I planned.
I keep waiting for that to bother me.
It doesn’t.
The phone rings.
Josh stills.
I open my eyes.
His phone is on the coffee table, screen lit with his cousin’s name. For one second, neither of us moves.
Josh reaches for it.
“Hey,” he says.
Iris keeps drinking in my arms.
Josh listens, and his face changes before he says a word.
I know before he tells me.
Iris is going home.