I waited a beat before following, running a thumb over the outside of my jacket pocket. The velvet bag was gone, rings where they belonged, but my hand still checked for the absence. Muscle memory, or maybe just the habit of hiding anything worth keeping.
Jojo met us just inside the house, baby outstretched like a cartoon lamb, the look on his face pure distilled “about time.” Emilio was in a footie with rocket ships on it, eyes wide and annoyed as only an infant with a full diaper can be. Jojo’s hair was static’d up from the baby’s wriggling, his left sleeve ringed with a fresh line of spit-up that he wore with all the pride of a war wound.
“You said three,” Jojo announced, not looking at me, not looking at Liam, just holding the baby at sternum height like he was returning a defective product.
“Didn’t realize we were on the clock,” I said, and took the baby with both hands, easy, careful not to knock Jojo’s balance. Emilio made a half-hearted squawk, then settled against my chest, the heat of him soaking through three layers of flannel and straight to the bone.
Jojo let go and exhaled. “He’s eaten. Twice. He hates the green bottle now, by the way, but he’ll tolerate the blue one if you warm it first. Also, I think he’s started teething, or else he’s just really into biting things that aren’t food. Or people.”
He rattled off the inventory with his usual efficiency, but the undercurrent was clear: I have done my time, and now I wouldlike to go pretend I have a life that is not babysitting your unplanned offspring. He didn’t say it, but his shoulders did.
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. He nodded, a single professional jerk of the chin, then slipped further into the house, already stripping off the soiled sleeve as he went.
Liam watched the exchange with the same face he’d worn in the courthouse, all careful non-expression and eyes that took in everything. He didn’t ask for the baby, didn’t even reach, just watched as I settled Emilio into the crook of my elbow and did a quick diaper check, one-handed and automatic. Nothing catastrophic, but we’d need to change him before dinner.
The air on the porch was a full ten degrees colder than inside the truck. My breath hung in front of my face, and Emilio’s did too, tiny puffs of vapor that made him look like a baby dragon, or maybe just a very small and angry barista.
“You coming in?” I asked Liam.
He blinked, as if I’d interrupted a thought. “Yeah,” he said. “Just—give me a second.”
I watched him watch the yard, the barn, the faint line of the highway beyond. His jaw worked a little, but nothing came out. I let him have his second, then turned and stepped inside.
The warmth hit like a slap. The house was heavy with the scent of wood smoke and something sweet—apple maybe, or a bread that had gone just past done. I caught the sound of Jojo’s retreat up the stairs and the distant rumble of Rawley’s voice, too low to make out the words.
Emilio made a low, satisfied grunt, then locked eyes with me. It was a look I knew well, the prelude to either a spectacular burp or a total collapse into sleep.
I bounced him gently, pacing the length of the front room. The wood floor was warm from the baseboard heater, and my boots made a soft, measured thump with every step.
Through the kitchen archway, I saw Liam drift in, movements slow and deliberate, as if he were checking the angles for snipers. He went straight for the kettle, hand already on the handle before he even looked at the stove.
I watched him fill it, set it to boil, then lean against the counter, eyes fixed on the blue flame like he was waiting for something to explode.
For a second, I thought about joining him. Thought about setting the baby down and just standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder, like maybe the combined weight of us could push the weirdness back outside.
But instead, I took Emilio upstairs, changed him with one hand while he tried to kick the wipes out of my grasp, then brought him back down, smelling like powder and victory. He had gone glassy-eyed with fatigue, the kind of exhaustion that only babies and men on their last nerve can achieve.
I put him in the swing by the window, strapped him in, and wound the crank. The tinny music box tune started, and Emilio’s lids dropped to half-mast, then closed.
In the kitchen, the kettle whistled. Liam poured water into a pair of mugs, both chipped but clean, and set them on the table. He sat, elbows on the wood, and just looked at the steam for a while.
I stood in the arch, arms folded, and let the moment stretch. The room was quiet except for the baby’s soft, stuttering snores and the ticking of the wall clock. I felt the urge to say something, to make a joke or a comment about the tea, but nothing seemed like the right wedge.
Instead, I just watched him. The way his hair fell forward, the pale of his knuckles on the mug, the small, involuntary tremor in his left hand. The wedding band caught the light, a dull flash of gold every time he shifted his grip.
I remembered what he’d said on the sidewalk—“I don’t want it to be just a legal arrangement”—and the way it had landed in my chest like a thrown wrench. I’d meant it, too, when I said “It is,” but now that we were back here, with the day behind us and the future a slab of unwritten ice, I wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling.
I wanted to go to him. I wanted to set my hands on the table, one on each of his, and just sit there until he was ready to talk or laugh or even fight. But I’d seen men run from less, and the last thing I wanted was to be the reason he put another fifty miles between himself and a home.
So I went to the sink instead, ran the tap, washed my hands with the harsh kitchen soap, then dried them on my jeans.
He watched me do it, a flicker of a smile on his face, as if he’d guessed the script I was following.
“Is he asleep?” Liam asked, voice low.
“Out cold,” I said. “He might last a whole hour if the wind doesn’t set him off.”
Liam nodded, then picked up his tea and blew on it, the steam making his face go soft around the edges.
