Page 24 of Worst Nanny Ever
I text Rob and Bixby, sending the link for the post, and ask them to meet up. They probably won’t get back to me for a while. I figure Bixby, at least, was up late celebrating.
Last night, we had a casual meeting with Frank, the producer who came to hear us play. He was impressed with what he saw, and he’s coming to our Saturday afternoon show at New Belgium Brewery in a couple of weeks. But he gave us a to-do list to finish in the meantime. Number one is finding a rhythm guitarist. We were told to get on that stat, preferably before the New Belgium show, which is ridiculous. A little lessthan two weeks won’t be enough time for us to find someone, given we’ve already been looking sporadically for months.
Rob seems to be all for working with this guy, and Bixby’s definitely a fame whore. He’s already been blowing up our group chat, blathering on about famous bass players, saying he’s going to be the next Roger Waters or Flea.
Me? I want to play my music. I want to run my after-school program with Rob. I want to figure out how to be a parent. My life might not be big, the way my parents always wanted their lives to be, but it’s mine, and I won’t let anyone take it from me.
At the same time, I don’t want to ruin things for my buddies. Rob’s like a brother to me, and I know how much he struggled after losing his place in Bad Magic. It took him years to find himself again. And Bixby…he burns for this. He didn’t grow up with wealthy parents like Rob and I did—he was raised poor in rural North Carolina. Money means something to him.
So, yeah, I can’t just say no thanks.
Maybe I don’t want to, either.
I had a dream once, too. It fell apart the summer before I moved to Asheville, but it never fully left me. I still hear the call of the music. The songs that want to be heard.
The spiral inside of me needs to be vented, so I head to the music room, pausing on the way to knock on Ollie’s door. “I’m gonna play for a minute.”
“Okay,” he says after a long pause.
I linger there, wanting to say something else. Wondering if I should invite him to listen. But I feel wrong-footed, so after another second, I leave.
I play.
I pound.
I sweat.
I think about Hannah touching my arm.
Hannah, asleep on my couch.
I play louder, faster, and when I feel better, I set down my drumsticks and head to my room and take a quick shower.
Only then do I pick my phone back up. I’m not surprised Rob is the only one who responded. Bixby is probably still asleep.
Want me to hop into those nanny boards and defend your good name?
Wouldn’t they question why you’re in a nanny group?
We got this. Let’s meet at Tea of Fortune. Thirty minutes.
I don’t have a babysitter for Ollie…for obvious reasons.
What about Hannah?
My mind skips back to last night as if it’s one of the grooves in my best-loved records. To Hannah, asleep on my couch, her legs tucked up, her cheek pressed to the cushion, her hair a riot of red curls.
I’d felt something when I saw her like that.
Something I’d probably be better at putting into music than into words.
Maybe what I’d felt was simple relief. Because even though I’m not sure I trust Hannah to make the best decisions, I do believe she cares about Ollie’s welfare.
Or maybe I was moved by the innocence of her asleep, all her sarcasm and hard edges blurred away. I like her hard edges, but I liked her like that too—the smooth expanse of her cheeks, her eyelashes brushing the skin, and the sweet sounds she made as she changed her position to be more comfortable.
Truthfully, part of my resistance to the idea of Hannahtaking care of Ollie is that I’m attracted to her—fiercely attracted, the way a man only can be to a woman who has the power to destroy him.
So maybe I should hire her, if only to make her completely off-limits.
