Page 33 of The Good Girl Effect
Throughout my entire walk, I think about this new nanny.
She was hardly qualified in the first place, but now she’s proved herself disobedient, insubordinate, and nosy.
Not to mention there is something that borders on inappropriate between us that is both of our faults.
I should fire her. But I won’t.
What I said to Phoenix was true. My daughter likes her new nanny. There is laughter in our home again. She smiles morenow. What kind of asshole would I be if I took that away from her?
Besides, it’s only six more weeks until the yearlong contract with the club is up and we are free to leave. It might have been heartless of me to hire a new nanny with plans to leave the city before the year is up, but I’m a desperate man in a desperate situation.
The city streets are still wet from the late evening rain, and I find something so relaxing about that. The way the cobblestones glisten under the streetlights and the cars on the road sound against the wet concrete.
I will miss this city when we go. I’ll miss the way Paris feels, embracing me with memories. But I won’t miss it at the same time. Because even the rain on the city streets taunts me with moments from our past, like the night Em and I were caught in the rain, coming home from dinner. How she asked me to kiss her under the downpour because it wasromantic, although I still don’t understand why.
But I did it anyway.
I used to hear her laughter in my mind so much more, echoing through our house and down the halls. Now I hear Camille’s instead, and it grates on my nerves. Her presence alone seems to be erasing the memory of my wife. And she has no idea.
Even the feel of her body against mine today. The soft curls of her hair against my cheek. The sound of her footsteps against the floorboards. The pinkish-red hue of her lipstick.
Fuck, I hate the way she tempts me. I’m a monster for what I want, not only because the poor woman is so naive, so innocent, and so new. But also because I want to reach for her in memory of reaching for Em.
I have to brush these thoughts aside. No more lurking in the hallway outside her door at night. No more pushing boundaries with her. No more lingering eye contact.
Put all these feelings away for good.
When I reach the house, I creep down the hall before disappearing upstairs. I briefly hover in Bea’s doorway before approaching her bed. My daughter sleeps peacefully, clutching a stuffed unicorn in her arms.
There’s an ache in my chest as I stare at her, the same way I do every night. I wish more than anything it had been me to go instead of Em. If she were here, she’d smother our daughter in comfort and affection so she’d never feel my absence. I wish I could do the same, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to reach through my own pain to ease my child’s, and I feel like a failure for it.
My mother raised me alone until I was seven. She made it seem so easy, but I don’t know how to do this without Em. I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing or messing Bea up somehow. This grief feels like a disease I don’t want her to catch.
She’s better off without me.
After gently kissing my daughter’s head, I tiptoe out of the room. Pausing in the hallway, I glance down at the closed door where Camille sleeps. Part of me wants to linger there again for reasons I don’t understand.
It’s the strangest thing. It’s like there is a line of invisible rope from her to me, and it tugs me relentlessly closer to her.
God, I need to get out of this city.
Turning my back on her room and ignoring the bond between us, I creep up the stairs to the second floor. I loosen my tie from around my neck as I walk into my bedroom, closing the door behind me.
I notice the piece of paper on the nightstand right away. Pausing in the middle of my room, I stare at it.
At first, I consider that it’s a note from my daughter. Or perhaps a drawing she made in school today.
Upon closer inspection, I see my name scribbled in black ink with messy yet feminine handwriting. Tearing off my tie, I toss it on the dresser before picking up the letter and staring at my name, written by her.
Jack
Slowly running my thumb over her handwriting, I imagine her scribbling my name on this paper. I hear her voice in my head as I read it over and over again.
What is this hold she has on me?
I unfold the two pages and find a letter written inside. A panic takes over as I consider that this is her resignation letter, not that I would blame her. I’ve been terrible to her. Sitting on the bed, I read the words in a rush.
Dear Jack,
