35. Josh
Chapter thirty-five
Josh
Iknock with coffee.
This time, the coffee is not an excuse. It is just coffee.
The door opens.
Liv is barefoot, hair clipped on top of her head, one sleeve of her blouse buttoned and the other still open at the wrist.
She looks at the cups first.
Then at me.
“A girl could get used to this.”
I hold out her coffee. “That was the plan.”
“I had a good time last night.”
Her mouth curves. “So did I.”
She takes the cup, and I step closer. Her free hand comes to my shirt and I set my coffee on the little table beside her door.
I lower my mouth to hers.
Priorities.
When I lift my head, her eyes stay on my mouth for one extra second.
“Good morning,” I say.
“You already said that with caffeine.”
“I wanted to be clear.”
I pull her in and kiss her again.
When I step back, I point to the open blouse cuff. “You have a wardrobe issue.”
She looks down. “I have a meeting in forty minutes.”
“I can button a cuff.”
She gives me her wrist.
I button the cuff, slow enough that she notices and fast enough that I can still claim innocence.
“Tonight,” I say, letting her hand go. “I’m off by six.”
“Allegedly.”
“Fair. If I am off by six, tacos at my place. The game. Every terrible snack you pretend you don’t eat.”
“I do not pretend.”
I smile. “Come over after work.”
Her eyes hold mine for one beat.
Just a Tuesday night with tacos and a game I only half hear because Liv yells at the officials like she owns the team.
“I’ll come over,” she says. Her mouth curves over the rim of her coffee. “As long as you won’t be a sore sport when your team goes down.”
“Just for that I am going to buy the extra spicy chips.”
Liv puts her coffee down. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I look at her coffee on the table.
“Wouldn’t I?”
Her eyes narrow. “Josh.”
I catch her by the waist and pull her toward me before she can take one responsible step back.
She lands against my chest with one small sound that does not help either of us.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” I say.
“That is not an answer.”
“No,” I say, lowering my mouth to hers. “It is a plan.”
I kiss her before she can argue, and she catches the front of my shirt like she is deciding whether to object or hold on.
She holds on.
***
By six-thirty, there are limes on the cutting board, taco shells warming in the oven, and three kinds of chips on the counter because I panicked in aisle four and bought every bag that looked like something Liv might deny liking.
My apartment smells like cumin and toasted corn.
A knock comes once, then the door opens.
“Permission to enter?” Liv calls.
“You’re already in.”
She steps inside, drops her work bag by the console, and kicks off her heels beside my shoes.
I look at them for one second too long.
She catches me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Josh.”
I look at her shoes beside mine. “Your shoes are by my door.”
Her face changes.
Small.
Enough.
She looks down and nudges one heel with her toe until it lines up with mine.
“I like seeing them together,” she says with a wink.
Busted.
She walks into my kitchen and opens the drawer for napkins, finds the stack, and takes out four.
“You bought the spicy chips,” she says.
“I may have.”
I hand her a lime wedge.
She takes it and leans up to kiss me before I can make another argument.
By the second quarter, Liv is on my couch with one leg tucked under her and the other across my lap. My hand rests on her ankle. She has argued with the commentator twice, the coach once, and me three times, though I am only guilty of asking whether the play was “really that bad.”
According to a very certain Liv, it was.
“You’re enjoying this game,” she says, pointing a chip at me.
“I’m enjoying you.”
“That is not a sports opinion.”
“It is the only opinion I have.”
She tries not to smile and fails around the edge of the chip.
The sound comes from my phone. I pick it up.
Liv’s leg slides off my lap. She sits up.
This is bad.
“Building collapse downtown.
Multiple injuries.
All hands.”
I am already standing.
Liv is already reaching for the remote.
“Go,” she says.
I look at her.
She turns the game off, sets the remote down, and stands. “Josh. Go. I’ll clean up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
The word is so quick I stop with one hand on my phone and the other halfway to my keys.
“No?”
“No.” She steps around the coffee table. “We had tacos. You bought all the chips in Manhattan. My team was winning, which I will expect you to admit later.”
“They were down by four.”
“Details.”
“Liv—”
“What are you apologizing for?”
The question is not soft.
That helps.
I look at the plates on the table. The lime wedges. Her shoes by my door.
The old answer is already in my mouth.
For leaving.
For ruining dinner.
For being the man whose phone goes off.
For making her build a life around waiting.
“I enjoyed the time we had together,” she says.
My hand tightens around my keys.
“A couple hours count, Josh.”
Tacos. Her feet in my lap. Her voice yelling at a referee who cannot hear her.
It was good.
I nod once. “This is not how I planned to say goodnight.”
Her mouth softens. “No.”
She steps closer, takes the front of my jacket in one hand, and pulls me down.
She kisses me like she has no intention of letting me misunderstand her.
When she lets me go, she turns me toward the door with both hands on my shoulders.
“Go. Go save lives”
I look at her.
She lifts one eyebrow. “That was not a suggestion.”
So I go.
***
It is after two AM when I come back.
I unlock my door slowly.
The kitchen light is on over the stove.
For one second, I stand there with my hand still on the knob.
The plates are washed. The counters are clean. The chips are clipped shut. The lime wedges are gone.
Her shoes are still beside mine by the door.
I look at them first.
Then I see her.
Liv is asleep on my couch.
The blanket from the back of the couch is pulled over her legs, but one foot has escaped. I walk closer.
Carefully.
She is on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, hair loose now, face soft in a way she would never allow if she knew I could see it.
She stayed.
My hands know how to be quiet. They know how to set bone, hold pressure, lift a sleeping baby from a crib without waking her.
They know how to cover Liv.
Her eyes open before I can step back.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“You’re home.”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Her eyes start to close again.
I crouch beside the couch. “You didn’t have to stay.”
Her hand shifts under the blanket until her fingers find mine.
“I didn’t want to leave.”