Chapter 6 Jess
Jess
The rent notice stares at me from my kitchen counter like a judgmental aunt at Thanksgiving.
FINAL NOTICE in bold red letters. Very dramatic.
Very on brand for my life right now.
I’m lying in bed at nine thirty a.m. on a Wednesday, trying not to think about Marco.
Which should tell you everything about my current employment status.
My laptop is balanced on my stomach, spreadsheet open, and every cell is basically screaming you’re screwed in Arial font.
Last month’s savings minus this month’s expenses equals... a number that makes my chest tighten.
When your bank account has less followers than your dead Instagram. Cut to me crying into ramen.
I refresh my email for the eighteenth time. Still nothing from the brand partnership I pitched last week. The luxury skincare company that wanted “authentic content” but apparently not my authentic content.
Cool cool cool.
My phone buzzes. Ethan’s name lights up the screen.
I consider letting it go to voicemail. But rent notices make you answer your phone, even when you’d rather hide under your duvet forever.
“Hey.”
“Did anything happen at the bar.” No hello. No preamble. Just straight to the Ethan Riley Interrogation Method.
My face goes crimson.
Thank god this isn’t FaceTime.
“What? No. Nothing happened. Why would anything happen? That’s ridiculous. We just talked. That’s it. Talked. About normal things. Very normal conversation between two adults who barely know each other.”
Oh my god. Shut up, Jess.
“Okay.” Another pause. Longer. “You’re doing the thing where you talk too fast when you’re lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Jess.”
“Ethan.” I match his tone exactly. “Nothing. Happened.”
Which is true if you don’t count the part where his best friend made me cum four times and then left.
That part definitely didn’t happen.
Nope.
Not even a little bit.
“Fine.” He sighs. “Then tell me something... why does Marco want you to be his nanny?”
I blink, confused. “He wants me to, what?”
“You heard me. Marco’s looking for a new nanny. His current one just quit. And he specifically mentioned your name.” Ethan pauses, then adds wryly: “Guess you made an impression.”
I feel myself grow redder by the moment.
Yeah.
A four-orgasm impression.
“Anyway,” Ethan continues. “Ben’s a bit of a handful. What you’d call... an anxious kid. But once she gets used to you, she’s the cutest. If you take it, the pay—”
“I won’t be taking it.” The words come out sharp. Too sharp.
“Jess—”
“I have to go.” I hang up before he can say anything else.
Then I stare at my phone like it personally betrayed me.
Marco mentioned my name.
Specifically.
After making me feel things I haven’t felt in years and then vanishing like I was a regrettable Tinder hookup instead of someone he spent hours talking to first.
And now he wants to hire me?
To take care of his kid?
Absolutely not.
Hard pass.
No thank you.
I open my Notes app and start typing furiously.
Reasons This Is A Terrible Idea:
- He ghosted me
- He’s my brother’s best friend
- I know nothing about kids
- Kids make me anxious
- I WAS an anxious kid
- Taking care of an anxious kid when I can barely take care of myself seems like a liability waiting to happen
- He’s a billionaire which means power imbalance which means recipe for disaster
- Did I mention HE SLEPT WITH ME THEN LEFT
I study the list.
Then I open my bank app.
Stare at that number again.
The one that’s smaller than my follower count used to be.
So maybe you’re not in a position to be picky, Jess.
I close the app. Open my email. Refresh again.
Still nothing.
Yep. The brand partnership isn’t coming though.
I spend the next hour doing what any rational adult would do when facing a major life decision. I doomscroll TikTok and watch other people’s perfect lives while mine implodes in real time.
Some girl with two million followers is showing off her “morning routine” which involves fresh-pressed juice, a Peloton, and skin that looks Facetuned.
Around noon, I finally drag myself out of bed. Shower. Put on actual clothes instead of the oversized shirt I’ve been living in. Brush my hair.
Look at myself in the mirror.
You used to have a career. You used to have prospects. You used to matter. Used to be someone.
I look away.
My phone is still on the counter. I pick it up. Open my messages. Find Marco’s contact information.
Why is he still in my phone?
I should have deleted it after sending the Venmo.
Well, I didn’t, so might as well make use of it.
I tap his name and the message window opens up.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
I could interview?
I type it. Stare at it. Delete it.
Would you be open to discussing the position?
Too formal. Delete.
So. Nanny stuff. We should talk.
What am I, a mafia boss? Delete.
I throw my phone on the couch and go make coffee I don’t need.
The rent notice is still judging me from the counter.
I pick it up. Read it again. Do math in my head that I already know the answer to.
Savings divided by rent plus utilities plus student loans plus the fact that I still have to eat occasionally equals...
I need this job.
I really, really need this job.
But working for Marco? Seeing him every day? Pretending that night didn’t happen while taking care of his daughter and navigating whatever weird dynamic we’d have now?
My chest gets tight. I count breaths without meaning to.
One. Two. Three.
I call Amara at work. Or rather, a work from home day, if I’m remembering her schedule correctly.
She answers on the first ring. “Please tell me you’re calling with good news.”
“Define good.”
“Employment. Income. Anything that isn’t you crying into my voicemail at two a.m.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times.”
Fair.
“I need legal advice,” I say.
“My retainer is high.”
“I’ll pay you in emotional labor and borrowed therapy. Plus ice cream. Lots of ice cream.”
“Sold. What’s up?”
I pace my tiny apartment while I explain. The bar. The job offer. The complete disaster of a situation I’ve walked myself into.
“Wait.” Amara interrupts. “You slept with him?”
“That’s not the point.”
“That’s absolutely the point. Jess. He’s your brother’s best friend.”
“I’m aware.”
“And now he wants to hire you?”
“Apparently.”
She’s quiet for a second. Then she laughs. “This is the most you thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“Are you going to help me or mock me?”
“Both. Multitasking.” I can hear her typing. “Okay. If you’re seriously considering this, we need boundaries. Real ones. Not the kind you think about and then ignore when things get complicated.”
“I’m great at boundaries.”
“You’re terrible at boundaries.”
Also fair.
“Live-out only,” Amara says, all business now. “No sleepovers. No blurred lines. You go home every night. Your space stays yours.”
I grab a pen and start writing on the back of my rent notice. Seems fitting.
“No closed doors in private spaces,” she continues. “Common areas only when you’re working. Bedrooms are off limits unless the kid needs you.”
“Obviously.”
“No fraternization clause. In writing. You’re the nanny. He’s the boss. That’s it.”
My stomach twists. “Right.”
“No kid content. Period. You don’t post her. You don’t film her. You don’t use her for clout even if you rebuild your brand. That’s non-negotiable.”
“I would never—”
“I know you wouldn’t. But he doesn’t know that yet. So we put it in writing. And honestly, I’d be surprised if his lawyer didn’t have something like that in the contract already.”
She’s right. Of course she’s right.
“You keep your creator IP,” Amara continues. “Anything you develop, any curriculum or content you make, that’s yours. Not his. If you pilot anything for him, that’s a separate lane with separate compensation.”
I hadn’t even thought that far ahead. But she has. Because she’s smarter than me and actually passed the bar instead of just spending time in them.
“And an exit clause,” she finishes. “One that’s not punitive. You can leave if it’s not working. He can let you go if it’s not working. No one gets trapped.”
I’m still writing. My hand is cramping.
“This is a lot of rules for a nanny job,” I say.
“This is a lot of complication for a nanny job,” Amara counters. “You need a rock solid contract. Especially with a billionaire.”
Especially with a billionaire.
Yeah, she’s not wrong.
“What if I’m terrible at it?” I ask quietly. “I don’t know anything about kids. They make me nervous. I can’t even walk past a school without getting anxious because they’re all just... loud and unpredictable and I was that anxious kid once and I barely survived it.”
“So you understand her.”
“Or I’m completely unqualified.”
“Maybe both are true.” Amara’s voice softens. “But you need the money. And he specifically asked for you. So either he’s an idiot or he sees something you don’t. Or he just really liked fucking you.”
I bite my lip. Taste blood.
“Sorry,” Amara says. “That last one was uncalled for.” But she giggles anyway.
“Amara!” I hiss.
“Sorry again,” Amara says. “I just find it hard to process the whole sex thing. What was it like? No, wait, don’t answer that.” She exhales. “Okay, seriously though, you could be good at this.”
“I still don’t know...”
There’s a long silence. Then Amara says, “What are you really afraid of?”
That I’ll fall for him.
That I’ll mess up his kid.
That I’ll prove everyone right when they stopped watching me.
That I’m not good enough.
That I never was.
“That it’ll be weird,” I say instead.
“It’ll definitely be weird. But weird pays rent.”
I laugh. It comes out shaky.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “How do I tell him I’ll interview?”
“You text him. Right now. Before you talk yourself out of it.”
“What do I say?”
“Keep it simple. Professional. You’re considering the position and want to discuss terms.”
“Okay... okay, thanks Amara. I’ll think about it.” Before she can protest, I hang up.
Afterwards, I sit on my couch and pull up my Notes app again. That list of reasons this is a terrible idea.
I scroll past it. Start a new note.
Brave Kitchen: mindful cooking for anxious kids
I don’t know where the idea comes from. Maybe from all those years of filming myself in kitchens pretending to have my life together. Maybe from remembering how counting helped me breathe when I was little and scared.
I start typing.
- Breathing while stirring
- Count to calm while whisking
- 1-2-3 squeeze when timer goes off
- Make the kitchen a safe space
I tag it private / no posting.
Just a sketch. For later. If I even take this job.
Which I won’t.
Probably.
Maybe.
I look at the rent notice again. The number at the bottom. The reality that pride doesn’t pay bills. Then read my new note over.
Brave Kitchen: mindful cooking for anxious kids
Anxious kids.
I’m already thinking of Ben.
The daughter I’ve never really met. Never really seen except from a distance at group things I mostly avoided.
The five-year-old who apparently shares my nervous system and my need for routine and my fear of things falling apart.
Maybe that qualifies me in and of itself.
Or maybe I’m delusional.
I pull up TikTok again and start doomscrolling. I’m not sure how much time passes. An hour maybe.
Finally I close the app. Open my fridge.
Half a carton of oat milk. Questionable leftover Thai food. A tub of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream that I definitely bought for “emergencies.”
This qualifies.
I grab the ice cream and a spoon, settle onto my couch with my laptop, and do what any functioning adult does when faced with a major life crisis.
I watch romantic comedies.
Three of them.
Back to back.
The first one is about a woman who loses her job and reinvents herself. I eat ice cream directly from the tub and pretend I’m taking notes.
The second one is about a nanny who falls for her boss. I pause it halfway through, stare at the screen, then unpause it because apparently I hate myself.
The third one is about a woman who gets a big promotion and moves to Paris and lives happily ever after in a gorgeous apartment she definitely couldn’t afford in real life.
I cry during that one.
Not during the romantic parts. Not during the breakup or the grand gesture or the airport scene.
I cry when she gets the promotion.
When her boss tells her she earned it. When everyone claps. When she packs up her desk with this look on her face like she finally proved she was worth something.
What is wrong with me?
I check my watch. 6:30 p.m.
The whole day is gone. Just... gone. Vanished into a black hole of avoidance and freezer-burned dairy products.
When you waste an entire day because making one decision feels harder than—
Nope. Not an influencer. Stop it.
I grab my phone. Call Amara.
“So, what’s the news?” she asks. “Did you arrange the interview.”
“I didn’t call or text him yet,” I reply.
“What?” Amara asks. “Why not? You had the whole day! Text him right away girl!”
I frown. “Bossy today, are we?”
“Why are you calling me then?” She sounds more exasperated then usual. “You obviously want someone to help you over the edge.”
“True.” I open Marco’s contact again. My thumbs hover.
Then I click his name and type:
I’d like to discuss the nanny position. When works for you?
I read it out to Amara.
“Perfect,” she says. “Send it.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
I close my eyes. Hit send.
The message sits there. Delivered. Read receipt on.
Three dots appear immediately.
Then disappear.
Then appear again.
I have to remind myself to breath.
“Anything?” Amara asks.
“Not yet,” I tell her. “Maybe he won’t reply tonight. Or at all.”
A girl can hope, right?
Finally my phone buzzes:
Tomorrow. 2pm. FHG HQ. I’ll send the address.
Professional.
Distant.
Like we didn’t just do the nasty.
Another message:
Thank you for considering this.
I stare at the screen until it goes dark.
“I thought I heard two text pings,” Amara comments over the line.
“Yeah,” I reply. “He’s arranged a meeting for tomorrow.”
“Okay then,” Amara says. “There. You did it. Wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“I suppose.”
“How do you feel?”
Terrified.
Hopeful.
Stupid.
Desperate.
“I feel like I’m about to make either the best or worst decision of my life.”
“Probably both,” Amara says. “But that’s kind of your brand.”
I laugh again. Still shaky. “Thanks for everything, Amara.”
“Hey, what are friends for? Let me know how it goes.”
“Will do.” With that, I hang up.
So there it is. One interview scheduled for tomorrow at two p.m.
With my billionaire one night stand.
About taking care of his anxious kid.
Now I just have to pretend my heart isn’t still bruised by the way he left.
I open my banking app one more time. Just one more time. And look at that number.
I sigh.
Yep.
Unfortunately, I need this job very, very badly.
Even if it kills me.