The event manager talked for eleven minutes. Emma timed it. Damages. Insurance. Papers. A figure that made her vision swim, three months of salary, maybe more. She nodded. Lily clung to her leg and buried her face in Emma's knee. "Mommy", she mumbled. "I'm tired." There was a shadow at her feet. She looked up. Alex was still here. He hadn't gone. He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. "I'll drive you home." "That's not —" "The storm is getting worse." He gestured to the windows. Rain thrummed on the glass. "And you came by foot." "How did you know that?" "I saw you come in." His jaw tightened. "With her."
Heat climbed up Emma's face. She hated being seen when she hadn't intended to be. She hated being the girl who showed up on foot at someone else's party. Lily shivered against her leg, and Emma felt the chill off her tiny body. "Okay," Emma said. "To our building. That's it." The car smelled like leather and something else, expensive, warm, a smell for a life she hadn't lived. Lily lasted four blocks before she collapsed across Emma's lap, fast asleep. Emma watched the rain streak the window, lights blurring as the city passed.
"How did you find us?" she said finally. His hands moved on the wheel. "I never stopped looking." He told her slowly, with big, long pauses, like he was being careful. He should have gotten her name that night. By the time he knew she was gone, she was gone. He'd hired a man, years ago, nothing. A month ago, the man called him up with a birth certificate. Nine months after that night. A daughter's name. "I wasn't going to approach you," he said. His voice was rough. "I just wanted to see her from far away. Watch her play in the park. Know she was okay." He paused. "Then she ran in, and I thought... That's my family. I've missed everything."
The car stopped in front of the building. The awning above the door was still broken. It had been broken for six weeks. The light in the vestibule flickered. He turned to look at her. She could see that his eyes were wet in the dim light. "I'm not here to take her," he said. "I just want to know her. And I want to help you. If you'll let me." Emma's daughter slept across her lap. One shoe was gone. Emma did not know where she lost it. She thought of the number the event manager had given her. She thought of the eviction notice in the drawer, the one she flipped face down every morning. She thought of Lily's question, last spring in the tub, her voice the special voice children reserved for the things that hurt, Mommy, why don't I have a daddy? Because I was twenty-two and scared, I told myself it would be fine. "I need time." "Take it." He reached into his jacket. He offered her a card. "In case of an emergency. Any kind." She took it. Their fingers touched for a second. The heat climbed her arm, and she snatched back too fast.
At the door, she shifted Lily's weight and turned back. He stood in the rain. Water had seeped into the shoulders of his jacket. He looked at her the way he did, like he was memorizing something he'd lost before and didn't want to lose again. "Thank you." "Always." She carried Lily up to the apartment and stood at the window in the dark. No lights. He was still down there, rain falling around him. He raised his head. His eyes locked with hers through the glass and rain. Then he walked away. She put her forehead on the cold glass. What have I done? Did not move from the window. The street was empty—just rain and light and the wet patch of pavement where he'd been standing.
All she could think about was the way he'd said Always. It wasn't a big word when he said it. It was quiet like something he'd been holding and put down. Lily gave a little murmur from the bedroom. Waited. Nothing else. She pressed her palm flat against the glass. Cold all the way through. She didn't know what she had done tonight. She didn't know if she was ready to know. What she knew was easier. For the first time in five years, somebody had seen her. Not the woman with the mop and the tote bag. Her. That was enough for one night. She went to check on Lily.