5. Sloane
FIVE
Sloane
I pace across the living room, my bare feet silent against the cool marble tiles that felt so luxurious when I first arrived over a week ago. Now they might as well be quicksand.
The stack of unopened mail on the counter includes a welcome packet from the condo association and a "Palm Beach Newcomer's Guide" that arrived yesterday. I can't bring myself to touch either.
Twelve weeks. They expect me to wait twelve weeks. That is the official word when I finally spoke to Bev yesterday. She assured me my job would be there. But who has twelve weeks to just chill while also keeping a roof over my head and eating?
Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the view I'd fallen in love with during the virtual tour. The Atlantic stretches endlessly, a perfect blue canvas that had seemed like the backdrop to my new life.
Now it mocks me. I'm paralyzed from enjoying any of it because of the anxiety I have about this predicament.
I drop onto the pristine white sofa I splurged on and stare at the lease agreement spread across my glass coffee table. $2,800 a month. Plus utilities. Plus car payment. Plus groceries. Plus...
"Fuck."
My stomach twists as I grab my phone and open my banking app again. The numbers haven't magically increased since I checked twenty minutes ago. My savings account balance glares back at me. I have enough to cover about five weeks of expenses if I'm extremely careful.
Who notifies someone three days before they start that the position is delayed? Who does that?
I toss my phone onto the cushion beside me, then immediately pick it up again. The rational part of my brain knows checking my account repeatedly won't change anything, but I can't stop.
My gaze drifts to the ocean view again. All that blue, all that freedom, and I'm trapped in this beautiful, golden cage I signed up for.
The irony isn't lost on me. I moved here for independence, to take the leap into adulthood. Now I'm facing failure before I've even begun.
The silence in the condo presses against my ears. Even with the sunlight, the place is cold and empty. Nothing like the warm, inviting space I'd imagined filling with friends and colleagues from my fancy new job.
I should have asked for the contract in writing. That was a rookie mistake. I run my fingers through my hair.
I scroll through my phone to Maris's contact and click to call. I've already dumped enough of my problems on her, but the alternative is sitting here alone with my thoughts, which are spiraling faster than I can manage.
"Just venting," I whisper to myself as the phone rings. "Not asking for advice. Not asking for help. Just venting."
But even as I say it, I know I'm lying to myself. I need more than just someone to listen. I need a way out of this mess.
"Sloane? You there? I think we have a bad connection.” Maris’s voice is calm, like she’s still processing the bomb I dropped the last time we spoke.
"Yeah, I’m here,” I say as I switch the speaker off and press the phone to my ear.
I continue my pacing across the living room. "And before you ask, no, I haven’t seen him again. I’d rather starve than make that my Palm Beach comeback story."
"I wasn’t going to ask," she says, but I can hear the unspoken curiosity in her voice.
"Mar, I'm dying on a vine over here."
"I hate you're going through this, Sloaney-Bologna. Did you talk to the lady at HR? Is it better or worse than she made it seem?"
"Worse. Her email said sixty to ninety days. She essentially said ninety days. I guess the good news is she is certain I will have a job at the end of all this. The bad news is, I have to figure out how to survive for twelve weeks."
"Let's focus on the positive. You have a job."
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "True, I guess. If there is a glimmer of a silver lining here. Except, when you factor in that I'm in a city where I know literally no one and my savings will be gone in five weeks, that glimmer fades. Quick."
"Take a breath?—"
"I can't take a breath, Maris. I signed a lease I can't afford without a paycheck. Every day I sit here is another two hundred dollars down the drain just for taking a breath."
My bare feet slap against the cool tiles as I make another lap around the living room.
"Have you looked at other options? Maybe something temporary? Or, you could always move back to Augusta or Clemson to get a job to pay the bills until things turn around?"
"Like what? I've applied to every clinic and therapy center within twenty miles. Nothing. The thought of going back to Georgia or South Carolina feels like defeat."
"What about babysitting? Surely some rich folks there need a sitter. You were so good with kids when you babysat all through grad school. You loved it."
I stop mid-stride. "Are you serious right now? Three years of grad school wasn't so I could wipe noses and cut up apple slices, Maris."
"I know, but?—"
"I have a master's degree. I'm a licensed therapist. But truth be told, I did put in an application to be a server at a restaurant. Also over-qualified, but at least I can keep some of my dignity."
"That could work. It's temporary, and it will give you something to do other than pacing around that apartment."
I walk to the kitchen and yank open the fridge door, staring at the contents without really seeing them.
"I don't know. Maybe something will open up in the therapy space."
"In a market you don't know, with no connections, in the next five weeks?" Maris pauses. "I think you're making this harder on yourself than it needs to be. There is no shame in taking a temporary job doing whatever before your real job starts.”
The cold air from the refrigerator washes over me as I stand there, frozen. Flashes of memory surface—making Play-Doh monsters with the Donovan twins, teaching little Emma to tie her shoes. The way children's faces lit up when they mastered something new.
No. That was a side hustle while I was in school. A means to an end.
"I didn't move to Palm Beach to backslide," I mutter, shutting the fridge harder than necessary.
"You moved to Palm Beach for a fresh start," Maris counters. "Sometimes those look different than what we expect."
"I'll figure something out." My voice sounds thin, unconvincing even to my own ears. "Thanks for listening to me unravel. I need to check my mail. It's my daily activity that gives me some stability."
"Sloane—"
"I'll call you later."
I end the call and toss my phone onto the counter with a clatter. The silence rushes back in, but Maris's suggestion lingers in the air around me, impossible to ignore.
My phone buzzes again almost immediately. Maris's happy picture of her holding up a fish fills the screen. I almost let it go to voicemail, but guilt wins out.
"Miss me already?" I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder.
"I remembered something! My friend Jenna from undergrad worked for this high-end temp nanny agency in Atlanta during breaks. She made bank. I'm talking serious money."
I roll my eyes even though she can't see me. "Maris..."
"Just Google it! Palm Beach has to have something similar. Think about it, all those wealthy families with their fancy vacations and charity galas. They need someone qualified to handle their kids."
"I'm not sure what's worse, babysitting or waitressing." I sink onto a barstool, absently tracing circles on the granite countertop. "Though I guess kids are in my wheelhouse."
"Trust me, kids are way easier than restaurant customers. At least with children, when they have a meltdown, it's developmentally appropriate."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "Fair point. The last time I waitressed, a grown man threw a tantrum over his steak being medium instead of medium-rare."
"See? And you wouldn't be just any babysitter. You'd be, like, the Mary Poppins of Palm Beach. With credentials."
The tightness in my chest loosens just a fraction. "I do have a way with difficult children."
"Exactly! And rich people love throwing money at problems."
"And their children are the problems in this scenario?"
"You said it, not me."
We both laugh, and for a moment, the overwhelming weight lifts slightly.
"Thanks, Mar. I'll look into it. LYLAS,” I say, our thing since freshman year— love you like a sis.
After we hang up, I sigh deeply and pull my laptop onto my lap. My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type.
high-end nanny agency Palm Beach.
The search results load, my eyes immediately drawn to the top listing: "Elite Care Childcare Services—Palm Beach's Premier Nanny Agency for Discerning Families."
Well, that sounds suitably pretentious.
I click through to a sleek website with minimal text and lots of serene photos of well-dressed women reading to perfectly behaved children in immaculate homes.
The muted sound of waves drifts through my balcony door as I scroll, providing an ironic soundtrack to my potential career downgrade.
Under "Current Opportunities," most listings are for part-time positions or summer-only arrangements. Then one jumps out at me:
Single dad of a seven-year-old boy seeking a full-time, live-in nanny for nine weeks. Competitive pay. Immediate start.
I click for details and nearly choke on my own spit when I see the compensation figure. That's... that can't be right.
I double-check the number of zeros. That would cover my rent for a full year. Plus utilities. Plus groceries. Plus, having enough left over to actually enjoy this overpriced paradise.
"Live-in, though?" I mutter to the empty room, chewing the inside of my cheek. That would mean giving up any shred of my independence.
But does it really? My brain shifts into problem-solving mode.
This condo would still be here. I'd have days off, and I could retreat here when I need to get fully away. It would be nine weeks of my life to solve a year's worth of financial stress.
It's temporary, I remind myself. Just until the clinic position starts.
I stare at the screen, my finger hovering over the trackpad.
My pride whispers that I'm better than this. My bank account screams otherwise.
I can imagine they will have a million applicants for this position because of the salary alone. I doubt it will lead to anything, but I have to try.
I barely take time to look over my résumé before attaching it to the application form. My fingers hover for just a second before I click "submit." There. It's done.
I close my laptop and push it away on the coffee table.
My phone chimes with a text from Maris.
Did you look into the nanny thing?
Just applied for one. Not holding my breath, but the timing and pay would be ideal. We shall see.
I stretch my legs out on the couch, watching the afternoon sunlight creep across the floor. The shadows have shifted since I first sat down, the golden light now casting long fingers across the marble.
My phone erupts with a shrill ring that makes me jump. Unknown number. Palm Beach area code.
I clear my throat before answering. "Hello?"
"Is this Sloane Brennan?" A crisp, professional female voice comes through.
"Yes, this is she."
"This is Vanessa Williams from Elite Care Childcare Services. I'm calling about your application."
There’s a brief pause while papers shuffle. "You sent in an application nineteen minutes ago."
My heart skips. Nineteen minutes? That's practically speed-dating for job applications.
"Yes, hi. Thank you for calling so quickly."
"We move fast when we see strong candidates. Do you have a few minutes to answer some preliminary questions?"
I sit up straighter, as if she can see me through the phone. "Absolutely."
"Wonderful. First, can you confirm your immediate availability?"
"Yes, I'm available right away."
"And the live-in arrangement, that works with your current situation?"
I glance around my too-expensive condo. "Yes, that won't be a problem."
"Excellent. Tell me about your childcare experience."
I take a deep breath. "I've worked with children throughout my education and career. During graduate school, I babysat regularly for several families. But more importantly, I'm actually a certified pediatric behavioral therapist."
"I saw that on your resume, which is what piqued my interest. Can you tell me more about that?"
"Yes. I moved to Palm Beach to start a position at Coastal Children's Behavioral Health, but they've delayed my start date by three months due to funding issues. So I'm looking for interim work."
The change in her voice is immediate. "That's extremely relevant to this particular position."
My pulse quickens. "How so?"
"The child in question has recently experienced significant trauma. The guardian specifically mentioned needing someone with professional experience, not just standard childcare skills."
I sit forward, professional instincts kicking in. "What kind of trauma are we talking about?"
"I can't share those details over the phone, but your background could be exactly what this family needs right now.
" Papers rustle again. "Would you be available to come in for a formal interview tomorrow morning?
Say, ten o'clock? We are on a time crunch for this and really want to meet you in person. "
Tomorrow. This is moving impossibly fast.
"Yes," I hear myself say before I've fully processed the question. "Ten works fine."
"Perfect. I'll send you an email with the meeting details. Please bring your ID, credentials, and references."
After hanging up, I sit frozen on the couch, my pulse thudding in my fingertips. The sunlight has shifted again, painting the room in deeper gold.
What the hell did I just do?
This was supposed to be a long shot, not an overnight solution. The speed is unsettling, like stepping onto an escalator moving faster than expected.
I want to cry and laugh at the same time. Everything since I moved here has knocked me off balance.
I need less excitement and more stability. But if this job is my shot at that, it already feels like stepping off a ledge and hoping the ground will be there when I land.