Page 110 of The Bossy One

Ilove you, Olivia. Stay with me. Please.

I cried myself to sleep as those words echoed in my head and my heart across the Atlantic, and then half of North America. Every part of my body ached with tension, grief, and loss. It didn’t matter whether I was awake or dreaming. I kept seeing the raw vulnerability on Declan’s face as he told me loved me. The hopeful look on Catie’s as she waited for my response.

But love wasn’t enough this time. He was asking me to give up the life I’d built in America, the career I’d built as a nanny. And yet he couldn’t even give up this idea that hurting Mark O’Rourke justified hurting everyone else around him.

I’d always hated when my friends defended the jerks they dated by saying, “Oh, but he’s not an asshole tome.He lovesme.”

I knew Declan’s situation was more complicated than that. Yes, he’d made a choice that was going to hurt people—but it wasn’t because he was mean or didn’t care. If anything, he was willing to do it because he cared too much.

But I also couldn’t stand by and watch him go down this path, waiting for the day revenge swallowed him whole. Sinead wasn’t the only Byrne sibling to have developed an addiction while trying to live with the burden of their loss and grief. She was just the only one who’d been brave enough to ask for help.

So I avoided conversation with the nice, cute man sitting next to me on the plane who offered me tissues. I didn’t say a word to the cab driver who took me home when I finally landed in Faribault-Northfield. And I didn’t realize until the next morning, when I was unpacking my suitcase, that I’d completely forgotten to tell Molly I’d left Ireland.

I stared down at the notebook in my hands, the one I’d been using to draft our story.

Just the thought of opening it hurt. The experience of writing this story, ofbelievingin this story, was too wrapped up in Declan for thoughts of it to bring me any comfort now.

I could have tried to keep working on drafts with Molly. The editor at the publishing house hadn’t wanted that many changes, after all. I didn’t want to be the kind of woman who passed up the opportunity to become a published author because of a man.

But it wasn’t just any man. It was Declan. And I knew in my heart that continuing to work on this book would be like tearing stitches from a fresh wound, over and over again.

I checked the time to make sure Molly would actually be awake with the time difference, and then I called her.

“Hey!” she said brightly. “Was just about to call you. Want to ditch Declan and grab a drink with me tonight?”

I snorted out a laugh, then swallowed the lump in my throat. “I would, but I’m back in Minnesota. Declan and I broke up. And I…I don’t think I can do the picture book anymore.” I went on to explain that she could have the rights to everything I’d written so far, and how sorry I was.

Molly interrupted me as I was trying to convince her to find another writer to get the book to the finish line.

“That is absolute bullshit. I’m not getting another writer. We’ll talk about this in a month, when you’ve had some time and you’re not all…” She searched for words. “Emotionally goopy.”

My heart ached at her kindness. “In a month, I’ll be nannying again. And there’s never any way to tell how much time I’ll have on my hands with a new family. I might not have a minute to spare for anything but my day job. Our editor needs our next draft before then. Really, don’t wait for me.”

Molly protested, but I apologized again, made my excuses, and hung up the phone.

I stared down at the suitcase I’d been living out of since my first nannying job.

I should have stuck with being the person who helps other people’s families, I thought.

Letting myself dream of having my own family again…it hurt too damn much when that dream fell apart.

* * *

When Sunny Days Childcare called and said they had a time-sensitive job interview available for me today if I wanted it, I was grateful for the distraction from my own misery. I dragged myself into the shower, changed into something respectable, and logged onto the video-chat to fake a smile and meet my potential future employees.

Fifteen minutes into the interview, I could feel my smile cracking.

“We don’t believe in nap time,” the mom explained.

“I thought you said your kid was two? That’s a developmentally appropriate age for a nap,” I said.

“If he naps, he’s too energetic when we get home from work,” the dad explained. “If you keep him up during the day, then he’s out like a light right after you leave. It’s much more efficient.”

“But it’s worse for your kid,” I said.

The mom narrowed her eyes at me. “You sound like our last nanny. She refused to use the bespoke baby lotion I bought for our little Trent, just because she thought it was giving him a tiny, barely there rash.”

“Now, now,” the dad said. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Sunny Days assured us that Olivia here would beveryaccommodating.” He lowered his voice and reminded his wife, “She nannied for the man who invented Snug.”

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