Chapter 3: Go Find Your Lover

Emma's POV

I turn my head, ready to leave.

"At least let me drive you home." Oliver's voice comes from behind.

I don't turn around, just keep walking toward the bus stop. Lily is sleeping heavily in my arms, her small face buried in my shoulder.

"Emma, she's asleep." He catches up. "On the bus with all those people, if you're holding her like that—"

"I'm used to it."

"Let me do this one thing. As her father."

Oliver has walked ahead of me now, blocking my path. The parking lot lights shine from behind him and I can't make out his expression.

"Just this once," he says.

I'm looking at him. He still talks this way, like he's making a deal. Rational, controlled, polite.

I glance down at Lily mumbling in her sleep and nod. "Fine."

His car is parked in the corner. A gray Toyota Camry with a rental company sticker still on the side.

He pulls open the back door for me. I settle Lily inside and she curls into a ball, still sleeping. I get in the passenger seat. Oliver slides into the driver's seat and buckles his seatbelt. His fingers pause on the steering wheel.

"Address," he says.

I recite a string of numbers. Brooklyn, halfway across the city from here.

The car pulls out of the parking lot. Outside the window, streetlights pass one by one, casting moving patches of light on the glass. Thanksgiving night, not many people on the streets. Occasionally a few pedestrians hurry past, their breath forming white clouds under the streetlights.

Oliver turns on the heat. Warm air blows from the vents, carrying a dusty smell.

"The school event was nice," he says.

I don't respond.

"I recorded Lily singing," he continues. "I'll send you the video later."

I keep watching out the window. The car reaches an intersection and stops at a red light. Oliver slows down and turns to look at me.

"Emma—"

"Watch the road."

He stops talking. When we get to Tribeca, he suddenly reduces his speed.

"That loft apartment is around here somewhere." His tone is light, almost like he's talking to himself. "You're sure it's not yours?"

I turn my head to look at him.

"I remember very clearly," he goes on. "Six years ago, I had Marcus set up the trust. There should be monthly payments going into your account. The property should have been transferred to your name too."

"Is that so."

My voice is flat.

"Six years ago," I say, "I was working as a cashier at Costco. Fifteen dollars an hour, eight hours on my feet every day. My employee number was 2847. I wore a red vest, worked register thirteen, scanned barcodes until my wrist got inflamed."

Oliver's fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

"If I actually had some trust fund," I continue, "would I really be competing with high schoolers for part-time jobs?"

His throat bobs. From the back seat comes the sound of Lily shifting in her sleep. Neither of us speaks.

After a while, Oliver pulls out his phone and types one-handed. The screen's glow lights up his face, cutting his features into half bright, half dark.

Oliver's phone vibrates. He glances at it and his expression changes.

"Marcus says," his voice is low, "the actual execution was handed to Vivian. She was my executive assistant that time, handling these personal matters."

Silence settles over the car again.

"I see." I'm looking straight ahead. Streetlights shine on the windshield, reflecting a blur of light.

"Mom."

Lily's voice comes from the back seat. She sits up, rubbing her eyes.

"Are we home yet?"

"Not yet." I turn around. "Sleep a little more."

"Daddy." Lily sees Oliver and her voice immediately brightens. "Daddy, my school has another performance next week. Can you come?"

Oliver looks at her through the rearview mirror, his mouth twitching.

"Of course—"

"Your dad's busy," I cut him off. "Next week he'll be busy looking for work."

Lily's smile disappears. She pouts, murmuring a disappointed oh. She looks at me, then at Oliver, then shrinks back into her seat without another word.

The car falls quiet again. It stops in front of my apartment building. Oliver stares at the building for a long time without speaking. Brick walls with cracks running through them, first floor windows boarded up with plywood. Half the hallway lights are broken and garbage bags are piled by the entrance.

I push open the car door and get out, opening the back door. Lily has fallen asleep again. I lift her into my arms.

"Emma." Oliver gets out too.

I ignore him and walk toward the building entrance.

"Wait." He follows. "That time you went into early labor—"

I stop walking.

"I remember Vivian said she visited you at the hospital." His voice is hesitant. "She said she gave you a check."

Early labor.

An image suddenly appears in my mind. That night when I was eight months pregnant, alone at home with the TV on. Oliver said he was going to New Jersey for a special report, filming a documentary about community rebuilding.

The evening news came on. I was about to change the channel when I saw him on the screen. Not in the studio but on location. An abandoned factory, rusted iron gates, evening light. Vivian was standing next to him. In the shot, her hand rested naturally on his shoulder. They stood side by side like partners who'd worked together for years. She was saying something and he bent his head to write in his notebook, then looked up and smiled at her.

When the camera angle changed, I saw the necklace around her neck. I'd seen that necklace before. In Oliver's study at home, sitting in a blue Tiffany box.

"For someone important," he'd said that night.

Something seemed to snap in my brain. The next second, a sharp pain tore through my lower abdomen. I looked down and saw water on the floor. My water had broken.

I dialed 911 with shaking hands and lay on the floor staring at the ceiling. The TV was still on, Oliver's voice coming from it, professional, calm, full of conviction.

The emergency room lights were blindingly bright. Doctors' voices rose and fell.

"Excessive bleeding—"

"Blood pressure dropping—"

"Prepare for transfusion—"

When I woke up later, a nurse was standing by the bed.

"Your husband's in the hallway," she said. "Though he seems to be comforting another woman who's crying."

I turned my head and looked through the small window in the door. Oliver was holding Vivian. Her face was buried in his chest, her shoulders shaking. He had his head bent, saying something to her.

"Is that so." My voice pulls me back to the present. Oliver is standing in front of me, his expression like he's waiting for something.

"All I remember is when I was in the ICU, a nurse came in and said some blonde woman was crying in the hallway," I say, my tone flat. "And my husband was comforting her."

I look into his eyes.

"Also, don't even think about coming inside."

I turn toward the building entrance.

"Go find your lover."

I push open the door and walk into the dark hallway. Behind me, Oliver stands by the car, motionless. The streetlight stretches his shadow long across the pavement.