30. Liv
Chapter thirty
Liv
Iwake before my alarm.
For one full second, I lie still and wait for the sound that pulled me out of sleep.
A small complaint from the nursery or the monitor crackle or Josh moving through the kitchen with the careful feet of a man trying not to wake a baby who can sense weakness through drywall.
Nothing.
I am in my apartment.
My own bed. My own ceiling. My own quiet.
Across the hall, Josh is probably asleep. Iris is home. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
I turn my head toward the clock.
4:17.
Absolutely not.
I close my eyes again, but my body has spent two weeks learning that this hour means bottle, diaper, laundry, low voices in Josh’s kitchen.
Now there is nothing to do.
Except be awake.
And make lists.
Email. Laundry. Groceries to give Josh, still on the counter. The conference call Carter put on my calendar without asking whether I planned to come to the office today.
Normal things.
Boring things.
Things I used to handle before a four-month-old with one sock and a suspicious face reorganized my entire nervous system.
By 5:36, I have stopped pretending sleep is coming back.
The apartment is dark except for the narrow strip of city light at the edge of the blinds. I turn on the kitchen light.
One grocery bag is still on the counter.
Adult food.
That is what I wrote on the note I left in Josh’s kitchen yesterday. I bought the granola Josh likes. The one he ate over the sink after Iris’s last bottle, still in his scrubs, while I pretended not to notice how tired he looked.
I also bought the coffee beans he prefers but never remembers to replace before the bag is empty.
When I turn toward the fridge, Josh’s note catches my eye.
I want five more minutes.
My hand is on the coffee maker when a soft tap comes from the door.
Then another.
I check the peephole.
Josh.
A glance down. Leggings. Oversized Columbia Law sweatshirt. Bare feet.
Good enough.
I open the door.
Josh stands in the hall in a dark T-shirt and sweatpants, hair crushed flat on one side. He is holding two coffees.
For a second, neither of us speaks. His eyes come to mine, then drop to the mugs.
He does not step in.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.”
His gaze drops to my sweatshirt, before coming back to my face. “I woke up.”
“I see that.”
“And made coffee.”
“I also see that.”
His mouth moves like he almost smiles. Almost.
“I made two.”
He holds my mug out from the hallway, his feet still on his side of the line.
“Before I remembered you’d left.”
I look down before he can see my face.
Left?
I live across the hall. In my apartment, with my bed, my coffee maker and my shoes besides the door.
But the mug in his hand is mine too. From his apartment. The one I kept using because it was just the right size.
“It has oat milk,” he says. “The correct amount, I think.”
I reach for the mug.
For half a second, our hands almost meet.
We both adjust.
Yesterday morning, he kissed me before he said good morning.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Sure.”
I wrap both hands around the mug. “I was about to make coffee.”
“I’m glad my timing was good.”
I lean one shoulder against the doorframe. “You woke up at Iris o’clock too?”
He looks at the mug before he looks back at me. “Apparently.”
“Rude of her to reset our internal clocks and then leave.”
“Classic Iris.”
I smile.
His mouth answers, but only halfway.
Yesterday, he crossed the nursery to kiss me.
Today, one foot angled toward his own door.
“I bought groceries,” I say.
Brilliant.
Josh blinks. “Okay.”
“For adults.”
“That seems appropriate.”
His face softens a little, and I grab the softness before it can disappear.
“I got too much,” I say. “Apparently I no longer know how to shop for one person.”
Josh looks past me, into the kitchen, where one grocery bag sits on the counter. “Too much?”
“I bought the granola you like. And the coffee beans you prefer, but can’t always find.”
His eyes come back to mine.
There.
That landed somewhere.
“I don’t know why,” I add too quickly. “You have coffee at your place.”
“Preparedness matters.”
I turn and grab the small paper grocery bag from the counter.
When I come back, he is still in the hall.
I hold the bag out. Josh takes it.
This time our fingers do not touch because both of us are being too careful.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
Josh looks down at the mug in my hands. “Waiting for it to be the perfect temperature?”
I give him my best eye roll and take a sip of coffee.
It is perfect.
I lower the mug. “This is good.”
This should feel easier.
Josh glances toward his door, then back at me. “I should let you get ready.”
“For what?”
His eyebrow lifts.
“Right,” I say. “Work.” The thing that pays for this apartment.
The quiet stretches one second too long.
My phone buzzes on the counter behind me. Another work email, probably. Or one of the Boss Babes demanding convincing proof of life. I do not turn around.
Josh notices anyway.
“You should get that.”
“I can get it later.”
The phone can wait. Carter can wait. The whole firm can burn politely for another thirty seconds.
Josh is standing in my doorway with sleep in his hair and coffee in his hand, and I am not ready to stop looking at him.
His gaze moves over my face like he is looking for something, but has already decided not to ask.
Because I asked for space. And he listened.
“I should probably go,” he says.
“Okay.” He lifts the grocery bag a little. “Looking forward to having the granola.”
“You can eat it sitting down now. At a table.”
That gets the smallest real laugh from him. It catches me off guard because it is his. Tired. Warm. Gone before I can enjoy it.
He steps back.
“I’ll see you later?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine for one extra beat. “Yeah.”
He turns toward his door. I stand in mine and watch him cross the hall with one coffee, one grocery bag, and all the careful space I do not understand.
At his door, he looks back.
For a second, I think he is going to say something else. But, he goes inside.
My phone buzzes again.
Carter
Quick question when you’re online.
I stare at the words.
Define quick.
I set the phone down before he can answer.
I take another sip. Still perfect.
I look at Josh’s note.
Five more minutes.
Across the hall, Josh’s door stays closed.
I wanted one more minute with him.
And when he was standing in my doorway, all I talked about was oat milk and groceries.