Page 47 of Joker

Or if it’s because he was steady all night in a way I’m still not sure what to do with. Or if it’s because he carried my daughter inside like it was the most natural thing in the world and then looked at me in the hallway afterward like he was trying very hard not to say the wrong thing.

Whatever the reason, the awareness is immediate and impossible to ignore once it settles in.

I stand again too quickly, suddenly restless.

The bathroom.

I need the bathroom. That sounds like a reasonable enough excuse to get moving and stop thinking about the man on the other side of the wall.

The attached bathroom is small but spotless, and the sight of a clean sink, fresh hand towels, and a shower with actual water pressure should not nearly undo me the way it almost does. I stare at my reflection in the mirror for a long second and barely recognize the woman looking back.

My hair is wild from being pinned and trapped and dragged around under a wig for hours. My eyes look huge in my face, tired and too bright all at once. My mouth is pale. My skin is washed out under the bathroom light.

I look like I’ve been surviving.

Which, to be fair, I have.

I splash water on my face and brush my teeth with the tiny travel toothbrush Mac found, and the normalcy of the motion nearly breaks something in me all over again. It’s such a small thing. Toothpaste. Water. Standing in a safe bathroom at nearly two in the morning while my daughter sleeps in the next room.

And yet my hands shake the whole time.

When I finish, I stare at the closed bathroom door for a second before opening it again.

The room is still quiet. Lexi is still asleep. The wall beside the bed is still the wall that separates me from Joker.

That’s what I tell myself as I stand in the middle of the room, I walk over to the chair and pick up his sweatshirt.

It’s folded.

Neatly. Carefully. More carefully than it needs to be. That alone should probably tell me everything I need to know.

It’s just a sweatshirt. That’s the thought I keep circling back to, like if I repeat it enough times it will settle into something true.

Just fabric. Just something he handed me in the truck because I was cold. Just something that smells like clean detergent and something darker underneath that I don’t want to think too hard about. Just something I should give back.

Immediately.

Before I start assigning meaning to something that doesn’t deserve it. Before I get comfortable. Before I forget that none of this is permanent.

My fingers tighten slightly around the folded fabric.

I exhale slowly. Then I turn toward the door.

The hallway is dim when I step out, quiet in that early-late night way where the building feels like it’s holding its breath between night and day. The low hum of the clubhouse still exists somewhere beyond the walls, but it’s distant enough that this part of the hall feels almost private.

Too private.

My bare feet make no sound against the floor as I move the short distance to his door.

I hesitate.

Because this is stupid. Because I could leave it on the handle. Because I could knock. Because I could wait until later and hand it to him in passing where it would feel less…deliberate.

But I’m already here.

Already holding it. Already aware of how ridiculous it would be to turn around now.

So I lift my hand to knock. And his door opens.