Page 22 of Only Mine
“Right. Obviously.” I locate a small button with a microphone icon. “Start engine.”
The Range Rover purrs to life, dashboard lighting up like a Christmas tree.
“Now you say ‘navigate to Little Acorns Elementary,’“ Ivy instructs.
I follow her lead, and the navigation system displays our route on a screen that looks bigger than my first TV.
“You’re really good at this,” I tell Ivy as we back down the driveway.
“I’ve done it a lot.”
She doesn’t say it with a big, proud smile. Ivy stares out her window, her expression somber, and I wonder just how many nannies she’s gone through since her mother passed.
And how many she became attached to who ended up leaving her.
It’ll take twelve minutes exactly to get to the school, so I decide to distract Ivy by asking her to tell me everything she knows about Falcon Haven and all her favorite spots. She perks up immediately, pointing out landmarks like the bookstore with the cat in the window, the ice cream shop that serves sprinkles shaped like dinosaurs, and the colorful public playground.
At the school drop-off line, I follow the procession of minivans and SUVs considerably less opulent than our ride. When I pull up, a woman in a yellow safety vest waves us forward with the skills of an air traffic controller. I park where indicated and help Ivy out of her fortress, which takes approximately half the time of putting her in. Progress.
Another woman in a floral dress and sensible shoes comes up to us as I’m straightening Ivy’s dress. Her smile is professional, but her eyes are curious.
“Good morning, Ivy!” Her voice carries the extra cheer ofsomeone who spends her days with five-year-olds. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Miss Erin, Ivy’s teacher.”
“Wrenley.” I extend my hand while using the other to subtly tug on the hem of my shirt to cover my belly button. There’s something about being faced with a perfectly put-together woman when you’re in loungewear. “Ivy’s, uh, babysitter for the day.”
“Saint didn’t mention a personnel change.” Her gaze skims over my pink streak, then down to my scuffed, used-to-be-white Chucks. “Not that he needs to, of course. We just have an open communication policy when it comes to Ivy.”
The way she sayswemakes my belly button pull back into my spine. Erin doesn’t use a possessive tone, and she’s not being inappropriate with me, but it’s just... familiar. Like she’s letting me know that I’m a part of something I’m not invited into.
I glance around, wondering if I accidentally dropped Ivy off at a high school with all its drama, instead.
“This was a last-minute thing,” I say, bringing my focus back to Ivy, who skips ahead. “She’s been great.”
Erin nods but stares pointedly at Ivy’s swinging braid. “Ivy usually wears her hair in a simple ponytail. She does better without the visual stimulation.”
I blink. “Oh. She asked for it. I thought it’d be fun.”
“Of course.” She gives me another smile, a little sharper. “But children also need guardrails. Especially after… everything.”
Especially after everything.
That’s the line that hooks behind my ribs. Not because Erin’s wrong, but because it’s the kind of truth that makes me feel immediately unqualified to evenexistnear someone like Ivy.
“It can be hard when you’re unfamiliar with a child’s triggers.”
I stiffen.
She tilts her head like a well-meaning hospice nurse. “If you need help, I can walk you through what we’ve been doing. Ivy can be a lot for people who aren’t trained.”
My throat goes dry. I’m itching to tug at the edge of my shirt, at the skin beneath.
“Thank you,” I say because it’s all I can manage.
“We’re just all protective of her. That’s all.” Erin gives a final smile that lands like a pat on the head. “I’m sure you understand.”
“Sure.”
“Well, it was lovely meeting you.” Miss Erin checks her watch. “Time to line up, Ivy! The bell’s about to ring.”
