13. Sloane #2
The afternoon sun beats down on the car, turning it into an oven despite the shade I found under a gnarled palm tree. I crack the windows to let in what passes for a breeze, but all that enters is humid air thick with the steady buzz of cicadas.
My phone shows 4:17. Thirteen minutes until pick-up time.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, wondering if Lennon had a good day or if he spent it withdrawn in a corner. Did he eat his snack? Did he miss home? Did the other kids?—
The doors to Seabreeze burst open, and a small figure rockets out ahead of the orderly line forming behind him.
It's Lennon, running and smiling. His backpack bounces wildly as he scans the parking lot, spots the SUV, and sprints toward me.
I pop out of the car to wave, and his face lights up with a smile I haven't seen before.
He yanks open the back door and scrambles in, barely waiting for me to help with his seatbelt before the words tumble out.
"We saw a horseshoe crab! A real one! Dr. Maya let us touch it!"
His eyes are wide while his hands make a circular shape in the air. "It was like this big, and the shell was hard but not scary-hard, and it had this long pointy tail thing that doesn't actually sting you even though it looks super sharp!"
I blink, startled by the sudden rush of words from a child who's barely strung together three sentences in my presence until now.
"That sounds amazing," I manage, adjusting the rearview mirror to see his animated face better.
"And then we made sand paintings with colored sand, and I worked with Will, he's seven too, and we made a shark and a horseshoe crab together, and Dr. Maya said we could bring them home next week when they dry!"
His words flow together without pauses, his hands still moving, illustrating each point with gestures that send his whole body rocking against the seatbelt.
"What color was your horseshoe crab?" I ask, smiling as I pull away from the curb.
"Blue! And black on the edges! Will wanted to make it red, but I said horseshoe crabs aren't red, and he said it could be a special one, so we made the shell blue and the legs red."
The contrast is stark. This child, vibrating with excitement, is the same one who spent the last two days communicating through nods and shrugs. My chest fills with warmth, a sense of rightness. This program is exactly what he needs.
"Did you know horseshoe crabs have blue blood? Scientists use it for medicine."
His gasp fills the car. "BLUE blood? For real?"
"For real."
The drive home is filled with his voice, questions about blue blood and whether sharks could be friends with horseshoe crabs, and what we might have for dinner.
The rich aroma of enchiladas fills the kitchen as I pull the ceramic dish from the oven. Steam rises in fragrant curls while Lennon finishes his horseshoe crab drawing.
As if summoned by his name, Pope appears in the doorway. His tie is loosened, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows. The kitchen light catches in his eyes, making them look almost amber.
"Something smells incredible." He hovers at the threshold, neither fully in nor out.
I lift the serving spoon. "Hungry? It's nothing fancy, but Lennon and I are excited for some chicken enchiladas."
"I should probably work through dinner?—"
"Pope! You have to try it. Sloane let me put the cheese on top." Lennon bounces on his toes, more animated than I've seen him around Pope.
Something shifts in Pope's expression, and then he looks up at me with eyes raised and what could be considered a smile. "Well, if you helped make it, I definitely have to try it."
He slides into a chair, shoulders relaxing as Lennon immediately launches into a detailed account of our cooking process.
I grab an extra plate out of the cabinet and place it in front of him. Our fingers brush when I pass him the serving spoon, sending an electric current up my arm. He holds my gaze a beat too long before looking away.
The waves crash steadily outside the glass doors, providing rhythm to our unexpected family dinner. Family. The word catches in my throat.
Watching Pope lean in when Lennon speaks, seeing his genuine smile when Lennon demonstrates how he grated cheese "all by himself," something inside me aches with wanting.
It’s a slippery slope, that wanting. I know it by the way my fork stalls halfway to my mouth, by how my chest tightens at the sight of them side by side—one tall and commanding, the other small and earnest, both with the same stubborn curve of jaw.
Pope doesn’t notice me staring. He’s too focused on Lennon, asking questions that make the boy’s eyes flicker with something close to pride.
“Think you could show me next time?” he says, and Lennon gives the quickest of nods before shoving another piece of gooey tortilla into his mouth.
My lips twitch, but I smother the smile before it escapes. If I let it out, I don’t know what else might follow.
I reach for my wine instead, letting the cool glass anchor me. This isn’t my family. I’m not his partner. I’m the nanny with an end date circled in my head.
Still, when Pope finally glances over, his gaze catching mine for a beat too long, it almost feels real. Which means it’s only a matter of time before reality rips it apart.