Page 31 of Nine Week Nanny
I pour a glass of Perrier, the cold bottle sweating in my grip. I stare at Lennon through the glass, his small shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Shit. Nine weeks with Sloane. After that night, after the way she looked at me in the interview, we’re going to have to figure out a way to make this work.
She’s exactly what he needs. Someone who understands trauma. Someone who isn’t me. This isn’t about me, it’s about what’s best for that little boy who just lost his entire world.
I drop onto the sofa, leaving ample space between us. On screen, cartoon dogs with Australian accents chase each other around a backyard.
Lennon's eyes are fixed on the TV, but I can tell he's aware of my presence from the slight stiffening of his shoulders.
How the hell do you talk to a seven-year-old? Let alone one who's lost his mother and been shipped off to live with a half-brother he's never met.
My phone buzzes again. Three emails from the regulatory board, a text from Caleb about staffing projections, and another from Lenoir about those damn signatures.
I should be at my desk, not sitting here watching animated dogs play some game called "Keepy Uppy."
But I can't bring myself to leave him alone, not yet.
"So, you like this show?" I sound like an idiot, even to myself.
Lennon bobs his head up and down but doesn't speak. His eyes never leave the screen.
Brilliant conversation, Pope. Really connecting here.
I study his profile. The straight nose, the stubborn set of his jaw, subtle echoes of features I see in the mirror. The resemblance is there if you know how to look for it.
Abruptly, he sets the remote down and stands. "Can I go back outside?"
"Sure." I pocket my phone, relieved at the prospect of movement. "Lead the way."
The sliding glass door opens with a whoosh, and the salt air hits us immediately. Lennon heads straight for the swing set, but this time he struggles to climb onto the seat.
"Is it too high?" I step closer, uncertain if I should help.
He shakes his head, determined. "I can do it."
After two more attempts, he manages to scramble up, his sneakers barely brushing the ground.
I respect his tenacity.
"Want me to push you?"
Another head shake. Instead, he twists the chains until they're wound tight, then lifts his feet and spins himself dizzy.
The rhythmic creak of metal fills the silence between us.
"We can walk down to the beach later if you want. The water's warm enough to swim."
"Maybe." He twists the chains again, face hidden from me.
I stand there feeling utterly useless. I’m completely stymied by this small human who shares my blood.
The wind lifts his dark hair, revealing eyes that hold far too much wariness for someone so young. He catches me looking and quickly turns away.
I've negotiated my way through billion-dollar deals with less tension than this.
The swing creaks. A seagull cries overhead. Lennon keeps his gaze fixed on his twisting shoes.
This is only day one, and it already feels like the longest day of my life.
