38. Liv
Chapter thirty-eight
Liv
We are at our usual table at The Donut, and I am explaining why San Juan needs three different lists.
One for wandering old streets with Josh.
One for dinner near the water with Josh.
One for morning coffee on the balcony after Josh comes back from the bakery around the corner.
Nadia is stirring her coffee looking at Sam, who is smiling. Priya is pretending not to enjoy my system, which means she respects it.
Priya studies me over her latte. “I’m sensing a theme.”
“San Juan?”
“Try again.”
Nadia takes one slow sip of coffee. “It’s Josh.”
“What is?”
“The theme.”
Sam’s attention moves past my shoulder.
Her smile fades into a squint.
“I know that face.”
Priya turns so fast her latte almost leaves the table.
A man steps up to the counter. Tall. Broad. Dark athletic jacket. Baseball cap low over his forehead. The kind of body people get from either professional sports or the family genes lottery.
“Well,” Priya says.
Sam leans a little to the side. “I swear I’ve seen him somewhere.”
“Sam,” Priya says, “you have your man. A man who adores you, by the way.”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m trying to place him.”
“Place him from my chair.”
“What?”
“Temporary switch.”
“No.”
“For research.”
Nadia finally turns toward the counter, gives the man one quick assessment, and faces Priya again. “Research does not usually involve lip gloss.”
Priya’s hand stops halfway to her bag.
“I was checking for my keys.”
“Your keys are on the table,” Nadia says.
Priya checks the table.
Her keys are on the table.
I pick up my coffee before I laugh into the lid.
The man says something to the barista, smiles once, and checks his phone. Sam keeps watching him hoping his name is printed on the side of his cup.
“Maybe TV,” she says. “Or the paper.”
“Maybe destiny,” Priya says.
Nadia gives her a look.
Priya lifts one shoulder. “Too much?”
“By several floors.”
The barista sets a cup on the counter. The man takes it, drops cash in the tip jar, and leaves before Sam can place him or Priya can commit a misdemeanor.
Priya watches him go through the front window.
Nadia slides Priya’s keys closer. “If you are going to run after him, grab your keys.”
Priya picks them up with dignity. “This table is hostile.”
“I prefer accurate,” Nadia says.
Sam’s attention swings back to me. “Anyway. San Juan.”
Priya’s eyes sharpen. “Yes. Please return to the part where Josh booked flights.”
“He did,” I say.
I try to sound normal.
All three of them look at me.
“Oh, that is a face,” Priya says.
“It is not a face.”
Nadia lifts her cup. “It is absolutely a face.”
Sam reaches across the table and touches my wrist. “Liv.”
I look down at my coffee. “He remembered my Barcelona notes.”
Priya’s expression changes first. Less tease. More warmth.
Sam’s hand stays on my wrist.
I swallow once. “He found a guest house in Old San Juan. Two rooms. Adjoining balconies. There is a gate between them.”
Priya presses both hands to her chest. “I am going to need a moment.”
Sam smiles at me. “You seem happy.”
“I am happy.”
The words come out without a fight.
Priya only grins, bright and wicked. “Good. Now tell me about the outfits.”
I pull up my list.
Nadia closes her eyes.
Sam laughs.
Priya leans in like this is no longer coffee. This is a wardrobe consultation.
***
By Friday evening, I have revised the list twice, removed one dress, added the dress back, and accepted the fact that Josh Miller is going to see me at an airport with a carry-on packed for three possible versions of myself.
He says nothing when security opens the bag and reveals the packing cubes.
That is why I love him.
He takes my tote before I can argue and shifts the strap onto his shoulder with his own bag. “Want to grab snacks? Maybe some water?”
“Yes and yes.”
A sound cuts across the concourse before we make it ten feet.
Baby.
Full alarm baby.
Iris?
Josh stops at the exact same time I do.
We both turn toward the benches near the end of security.
A woman is standing beside a stroller with one shoe on, one shoe off, her belt hanging from one hand and a baby screaming against her shoulder.
A plastic bin sits on the floor with a bottle, a blanket, a tiny sock, and every receipt ever printed.
A pacifier is under the bench. Her diaper bag has tipped sideways, and a packet of wipes is making a slow escape.
The woman bounces once.
The baby screams harder.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I say before I know which one I mean.
Josh glances at me.
I glance at him.
We move.
“Hi,” I say, stopping a few feet away so I do not come across as a woman who steals babies at Terminal C. “Do you want a hand?”
The mother looks at me, at the baby, then at the open diaper bag beside her. “I’m fine.”
The baby hiccups, and releases a fresh wave of rage.
The mother closes her eyes. “Okay, it could be better.”
Josh crouches and picks up the pacifier from under the bench. “We recently watched my cousin’s baby for fourteen days while she was in the hospital,” he says. “We’re both going through a bit of baby withdrawal.”
The mother’s attention moves from Josh to me.
“You’re withdrawing from a screaming baby?”
“Not the screaming,” I say.
Josh’s mouth curves. “Maybe a little.”
I give him a look.
He gives it right back.
“The withdrawal is more from working together once Iris hit Atomic Tomato stage,” I say.
The mother blinks. “Atomic what?”
“Our name for when Iris, my niece, went to DEFCON ten,” Josh says.
The baby kicks both legs and turns a deeper shade of red.
“Current presentation is consistent,” I say.
The mother laughs once.
“I’m stealing that.”
I hold out my hands. “May I?”
The mother looks at the baby, then at me. “You’re sure?”
“Iris approved.”
Josh lifts the pacifier. “And she has clean hands.”
“I used sanitizer twice,” I say.
“Three times,” Josh says.
The mother shifts the baby into my arms, and the weight lands against me with startling ease. Small body. Furious lungs. Warm cheek near my collarbone.
“Hi,” I whisper. “You are having a terrible day.”
The baby screams into my sweater.
“Strong argument,” I say.
Josh takes the diaper bag and sets it upright on the bench. “You get your shoe. I’ve got the bag.”
The mother stares at him. “Are you always like this?”
“No,” I say.
Josh turns his head toward me.
“You should see him organize snacks.”
The mother laughs again.
Josh gathers the bottle, blanket, wipes, and tiny sock. I sway once, twice, the old rhythm coming back faster than I expect.
Iris at two in the morning.
Iris in the hallway. Iris turning red in Josh’s arms while we both negotiated with her.
The baby’s scream drops to a furious complaint.
“There you go,” I murmur. “File your objection. We are listening.”
Josh looks over. His face softens in a way I feel before I can look away.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Josh.”
“Just enjoying your legal arguments.”
The mother gets her second shoe on, clips her belt through one loop, then stops and laughs at herself. “Good enough.”
“Airport standard,” Josh says.
He zips the diaper bag and sets it on the stroller handle.
I hand the baby back once the mother has both arms free. The baby fusses, presses one damp cheek into her shoulder, and makes a sound like the world has disappointed, again.
The mother exhales. “Thank you.”
“Good luck,” I say.
She looks at the baby. “Say thank you to the nice people.”
The baby hiccups.
Josh nods.
The mother smiles. “Atomic Tomato.”
“Use it wisely,” I say.
We leave her with the stroller upright, the bag zipped, and one shoe not fully tied but close enough for air travel.
Josh takes my hand before we reach the snack line.
I look down at our fingers.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
His thumb moves once over my knuckles. “Liv.”
I lean into him.
“We’re good together,” I say.
“We are.”
“Next in line,” the cashier says. Josh lets me go first.
I order snacks.
For both of us.