Page 3 of Nine Week Nanny
My phone chimes from inside my bag. I wipe my hands on my leggings and dig it out.
It's a new email from Coastal Children's Behavioral Health.
My heart skips. Finally. This must be my welcome packet.
I tap to open it, already mentally planning which outfit I'll wear on Monday.
Dear Ms. Brennan,
Due to unexpected budget constraints, we must postpone your start date for the Pediatric Behavioral Therapist position at Coastal Children’s Behavioral Health. As you know, your offer was extended and accepted; however, a major donor’s withdrawal requires us to adjust near-term staffing.
We expect clarity on timing within 60–90 days and will contact you immediately to confirm a new start date. We appreciate your patience during this period and encourage you to stay in touch with HR should your availability change.
We apologize for the inconvenience this may cause. In the meantime, we encourage you to stay in touch, and we will prioritize your start date as soon as we are able to move forward.
Thank you again for your understanding, and we look forward to reconnecting soon.
Sincerely,
Bev Peters
Director of Human Resources
The phone slips from my hand and clatters onto the counter.
"No." The word comes out as a whisper. "No, no, no."
My legs go weak. I grab the edge of the counter to steady myself. The room spins as my green reset threatens to make a reappearance.
I can't breathe. My chest feels like it's being crushed.
This can't be happening.
I snatch up the phone and read the email again. And again. The words don't change.
My gaze darts to the lease portfolio. I grab it, flipping frantically through the pages until I find what I'm looking for.
Early termination fee: Three months' rent ($8,400) plus forfeiture of security deposit ($2,800).
$11,200. That's more than all my savings combined.
I'm trapped. In a city where I know no one, with no income, and a lease I can't afford to break.
My throat tightens. I slide down against the cabinets until I'm sitting on the floor, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes.
What am I going to do?
Tears spill down my cheeks. I hug my knees to my chest, feeling the panic rise like a tsunami. My breath comes in quick, shallow gasps.
Three years of grad school, moving my entire life, and taking the leap that everyone said was the dream job.
And now nothing?!
"Breathe, Sloane," I whisper to myself, struggling to force air into my lungs. "Just breathe."
I stare at the screen as if I just keep reading it, maybe the words will change. But they don’t. They stay the same.
I can’t believe this. They expect me to sit here and wait for the job to open back up? Sixty to ninety days. That's almost nine grand in rent alone.
