Page 132 of Nine Week Nanny
He isn't the only one missing her.
Camila called me his anchor. All I hear is the weight of him sinking.
Margaret hums something gentle, trying to redirect him. I can’t bring myself to walk in, not with my chest pulled so tight I worry it might split open. I stand there, listening, useless.
Eventually, I move, slow steps carrying me past the hallway and into the kitchen. I drop my keys on the counter and grip the edge until my knuckles ache.
The house is supposed to be safe. Instead, the air is thick and heavy, like it’s waiting for me to crack. Each room reminds me of what’s missing, of what I can’t fix.
Margaret’s voice drifts down the hall, soft and steady, Lennon’s quieter reply almost lost under it. I can’t listen anymore. I want to crawl out of my skin right now and need a release.
I push away from the counter and head toward the living room. Margaret glances up when I pass. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” I lie. My voice is rough even to my own ears. “I’m going to the gym. I’ll be back in an hour, in time for you to leave on time.”
She nods, but her eyes linger a beat too long, like she knows more than she’s saying.
The drive takes less than ten minutes, but it’s long enough for Camila’s words to loop again.You’re his anchor.Every mile, the phrase grinds deeper. By the time I step into the gym, my jaw aches from clenching.
The place smells like rubber mats and disinfectant. The bass of someone’s playlist thuds from overhead speakers, but it doesn’t touch the hollow inside me.
I swipe in, grab a towel, and head straight for the free weights.
Bench press. Something simple, something I can load heavy enough to drown everything else out.
I lie back, wrap my hands around the bar, and push. The strain pulls across my chest, my shoulders, my arms. For a second, there’s nothing but burn. No tabloids, no court orders, no wide-eyed kid waiting for answers I don’t have.
But then I rack the bar, sit up, and the noise in my head rushes back.
I add more weight. Grip. Press. Again. The muscles in my arms shake, sweat stings my eyes. I chase it, that brief moment when effort drowns thought.
It doesn’t last.
I move through everything, the rows, squats, curls, like I used to every day before my life became so complicated. My body remembers the motions. Muscle memory, discipline. It should be energizing, like I'm in control, like progress.
But it doesn’t.
I'm just as empty as I have been for months.
I slam the weights down harder than I mean to. A guy across the room glances over. I ignore him, grab the towel, and wipe the sweat from my face. My reflection in the wall of mirrors looksback at me, eyes hollow, expression set in something that isn’t victory or relief.
I used to love this. I used to need it every day.
Now it’s just motion. Pushing and pushing, and nothing filling the void.
I drop back onto the bench, rack loaded heavy, and grip the bar one more time. My arms burn, chest tight. I shove it upward, teeth gritted, welcoming the strain because at least it hurts. At least it’s something I can control.
When I rack it, breath tearing through my lungs, I still feel nothing but the echo.
Camila’s voice comes back, cruel in its honesty.You’re his anchor.And all I can think is that anchors don’t save you.
They drag you under.
THIRTY-FIVE
Sloane
I stand in the doorway of my childhood bedroom, clutching my purse to my chest. The lavender walls close in around me, a color I outgrew fifteen years ago, but my parents never bothered to paint over.
