Page 153 of Nine Week Nanny
My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling slightly. A dozen responses form and dissolve in my mind.
The pressure in my chest releases in a rush of air I didn't know I was holding. I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at those eleven words like they contain hidden meanings I need to decode.
She didn't have to text. She could have let me leave on Sunday without another word.
But she reached out.
A fragile thread of hope unspools inside me. Not forgiveness, not yet, but possibility. A door left slightly ajar instead of locked tight.
I set the phone down beside me on the bed, watching it like it might disappear if I look away. The blue-white glow of the screen casts a soft light across the comforter, a quiet promise in the darkness.
It's not everything. It's barely anything at all.
But it's something.
FORTY-ONE
Sloane
I pace the length of my apartment for what must be the hundredth time tonight.
There are seven steps from the kitchenette to the bedroom door. Turn. Repeat.
The single lamp casts long shadows across the hardwood floors, making the space even smaller than it is.
I grip my phone harder than necessary as I check it again. The screen illuminates my face with its harsh glow as I re-read my message from last night.
Maybe we'll run into each other again.
God, what was I thinking? So vague. So middle school.
I cringe at myself, stopping to take a sip of the Pinot Grigio that's been sitting on my coffee table long enough to lose its chill. The takeout container from dinner, some sad pad thai I barely touched, still sits on the counter.
I open my work calendar, scrolling through next week's appointments, then close it again.
Then, I flip to Instagram. But I quickly close that, too. Anything to keep my fingers busy, to prevent them from typing what they want to.
"This is ridiculous," I mutter to the empty room. "I'm an adult.”
But responsible women don't typically fall apart over men who've completely upended their lives. Men who show up unannounced in black SUVs with declarations of love and promises of better futures.
My thumb hovers over the message field. Before I can stop myself, I type out a message.
Still up for that drink?
My heart hammers against my ribs as I hit send. The little BLURP sound of the text going through tells me it's done, no going back.
One second passes. Two. Three.
My phone dings with his reply.
Always.
The single word shoots through me like electricity. I drop onto my couch, staring at the screen, at the period following that one loaded word. No hesitation. No qualification.
"It's just a drink," I tell myself, already moving toward the bathroom. "Just clearing the air."
But as I swipe on lipstick and add an extra dab of perfume to my wrists, the woman in the mirror knows better. Her eyes are too bright, her cheeks too flushed. This isn't casual.
