Page 125 of Nine Week Nanny
It should feel like winning. But it doesn’t.
The clock ticks steadily on the wall. Each sound drives home the silence. My chest stays tight, not with panic, not even anger, just a heavy pull I can’t shake.
I saved Lennon from Chris. Protected what’s his, created a bubble that is steady and safe, at least for now.
So why does it feel like I traded everything else to get here?
I shut my eyes, breathing through the ache, then force them open again. No time for sentiment. I don’t have the time or energy for it.
Success used to be enough. Tonight, it sits hollow.
THIRTY-THREE
Sloane
Two Months Later
"To freedom and fantastic friends!" Angela raises her glass, the sparkling liquid catching the dim light of the rooftop bar Seaside Terrace.
"And to your first night out since Tyler decided to grace us with his presence." I clink my glass against hers, relishing the tart sweetness of my pomegranate martini as it slides down my throat.
The music pulses around us, not quite loud enough to drown conversation but energetic enough to make the whole place pulse. Every surface gleams with that polished Palm Beach shine.
"God, I forgot what it's like to wear something without spit-up on it." Angela smooths her blouse, a silky emerald camisole that makes her look like she never pushed out two children.
I laugh, really laugh, for what I think could be the first time in months. "You look amazing. How's little man doing?"
"Tyler's perfect. Cutting his first tooth and terrorizing the cat." Her eyes soften. "Micah's teaching him to high-five."
The mention of Micah sends a familiar pang through my chest. I take another sip to wash it down.
"How's work going?" Angela leans forward, elbows on the table.
"Honestly, it’s been so good. I'm loving putting into practice what I studied." I trace the rim of my glass. "Coastal gave me my own caseload right away. Three autistic preschoolers, a kid with selective mutism, and twin boys with sensory processing issues."
"Look at you, professional woman."
"With a salary that made half my grad school class send hate texts." I shake my head, still not quite believing it. "And my apartment doesn't feel temporary anymore. I bought real furniture and actual matching plates."
Angela grins. "The height of adulthood."
"Right?" I smile back, but my mind drifts to Pope's immaculate kitchen, the weight of his expensive wine glasses, the way Lennon would carefully arrange his dinosaur figurines on the counter while I cooked.
"You still think about them." She states it so matter-of-factly that I don't have to confirm or deny. She knows.
I nod, taking another sip. "It's not as raw, now. It's more like a bruise, instead of an open wound."
"Have you heard anything?"
"Not directly." I twist a strand of hair around my finger. "How's Lennon doing? I can’t believe he’s still living with Pope. Is he still at Seabreeze?"
Angela nods. "He's there. Margaret brings him, but..." She hesitates.
"But what?"
"The playdates stopped. Margaret's efficient but not exactly warm." She wrinkles her nose. "Micah asks about Lennon sometimes. About you, too."
My throat tightens. "I miss him. Them. Him." I don't clarify which "him" I mean. Maybe both.
