Page 156 of His Surrender

At 5:48, I look at my phone again to find nothing.

I tell myself she is probably on her way back now.

I open our text thread anyway.

Me: How’s the shopping going?

I stare at the message for a moment before pressing Send.

The small blue bubble appears beneath the last picture she sent me, a photograph of a ridiculous baby-sized Santa hat with the caption, Tell me she doesn’t need this.

I replied, She doesn’t need it.

Aubrey sent back, Wrong answer.

I smile at the messages, but the expression fades when the clock changes to 5:50.

Liana begins rubbing her eyes, and I carry her down the hall to change her diaper before dinner. The routine gives me something to do. I talk to her while I work, describing each step like she is deeply invested in the process.

“First, we remove the evidence,” I tell her, lifting her legs.

She grabs one foot and tries to pull it toward her mouth.

“No. Absolutely not.”

She continues trying.

“You have no standards.”

She laughs, and for several minutes, I forget to check the time.

When we return to the kitchen, it is 6:03. I glance toward the foyer before I can stop myself.

The apartment remains quiet. No sound from the elevator, telling me she’s on her way up.

I set Liana back into the highchair and pick up my phone. My message still shows as Delivered, but there is no response.

I type another one.

Me: Dinner’s ready whenever you are.

This time, I hesitate before sending it.

She said she would be back before dinner, not at exactly six. She has been gone for hours. It is December in Manhattan. Every store is crowded. Every sidewalk is packed. Being fifteen or twenty minutes late means nothing.

I press Send anyway, and then I slide the phone face down on the counter, irritated with myself for caring this much. Not caring about her—that part is unavoidable. I am irritated by the part of my brain that has already begun monitoring every minute.

By 6:15, I make Liana her bottle and feed her dinner while mine remains untouched on the stove. She takes three bites of her mashed peas, spits out the fourth, and smears the fifth across her cheek. I clean her face, offer her more, and pretend I am not listening for the elevator.

At 6:20, I check the phone again, and there’s still nothing. Not even a text to let me know she is running late.

A small pressure begins behind my ribs. It’s a tightening that makes each breath feel slightly more deliberate.

I call her, and it goes to voicemail. My grip tightens around the phone. It has to be a dead battery.

I hang up before the beep and force myself to place the phone back on the counter.

“She’s fine,” I say out loud to myself.