23. Sloane
TWENTY-THREE
Sloane
"This place smells like fresh basil all the time," Angela smiles as she glances around. "Warms the soul, doesn’t it?"
I nod, taking in the cheerful buzz of lunchtime chatter. "Feels like a slice of home, even if it’s someone else's."
Angela's hand plays with the edge of the napkin, her engagement and wedding rings catching the light.
"Micah was so bummed when I told him his buddy wouldn't be there today. He's really going to have a hard time when Lennon leaves." Her tone dances on the edge of worry.
"I can identify with that. I try not to think about it," I reply, swirling my straw in the citrusy concoction. I've noticed recently the anxious pang in my chest when I look too far ahead.
Our grain bowls arrive, vibrant and colorful. I pick up a roasted carrot and savor its caramelized burst. "Wow. This is so good."
"Told you. My fav!"
Sunlight splashes through the windows, turning the glasses of iced tea into prisms on the tablecloth. I watch a droplet slide down my glass, wondering how things went with the meeting. They are probably heading out right about now to head back.
"Did you show those fun math games I emailed you to Lennon last night?" Angela asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Micah can't get enough of them."
I nod, half-listening. "I didn't, but I ordered some fraction tiles this morning. I'm trying to find educational things for the new weekend nanny to do with Lennon when I'm not there. I was thinking you and I can share them for the boys, too, during the week."
"Thank you. Tyler finally slept through the night, so my brain is actually functioning today." Angela takes a bite of quinoa, studying me. "You're somewhere else right now, too. Everything okay with Lennon?"
"Lennon's great, actually. I was just wondering how the meeting went." I hesitate, picking at my bowl. "It's Pope, actually, if I'm being honest."
I stab at a piece of lettuce, trying to look casual while my pulse trips
Angela's eyebrows lift slightly. "Ah. The very attractive, very intense big brother protector."
Heat creeps into my cheeks. "I've done something really unprofessional."
"You slept with him," Angela states plainly, not a question. She leans back in her chair, a knowing smile tugging her mouth as she says it.
When my eyes widen, she laughs softly. "Honey, I saw how you blushed when I mentioned him yesterday. Plus, I've been married long enough to recognize that 'I've been thoroughly satisfied' glow."
"God, is it that obvious?" I press my palms to my face. The clink of silverware from the next table feels suddenly too loud, like everyone must’ve heard her.
"Only to another woman." Angela leans forward. "So what's the problem? You're both adults. Good for you."
"He's my employer, for one thing. And I'm here to care for Lennon, not, you know…. I'm supposed to be focused on helping that little boy through his grief, not," I drop my voice, not sure I want to say the words out loud. I hunch forward, shoulders curling, wishing the floor would swallow me.
"No what, being an adult with your life outside of work?"
"I'm not supposed to be having sex in the pool after Lennon goes to bed."
Angela nearly chokes on her drink. "The pool? Well, now I'm impressed."
Her laugh bubbles out, spilling across the table, and I can’t help the tiny grin tugging at my lips despite the heat in my cheeks.
"I'm so glad you said that. I've needed to get it off my chest but I didn't want you to think I was this terrible person." My throat loosens, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
"Sloane, I'm not your mother." Her expression softens, amusement giving way to something steadier.
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "Look, life is messy. Pope obviously trusts you with Lennon, which says a lot about how he sees you. You're not just the help. And, honestly, I don't really see the problem as long as you're doing your job during the day."
"Well, there is the giant elephant in the room that this is all temporary. All of it. In a matter of weeks, Camila takes Lennon, I start my real job, and Pope..."
"Goes back to being Pope," she finishes for me. "That doesn't mean what's happening now isn't real."
For the first time all day, I take a full breath.
"Thank you. You have no idea how much talking to you about this has helped me."
"Girl, you can talk to me any time. I mean it. Nothing is off limits for me."
I smile, grateful for my unexpected friendship. We spend the rest of lunch catching up on where we went to school, my grad school degree, her surfing hobby. It was exactly what I needed for a recharge.
Lunch leaves me lighter, steadier. On the drive back, I decide to stop by my apartment instead of the house.
I pull into the lot, the smell of fresh-cut grass in the air as I push the door open. Dust motes dance in light filtered through blinds I forgot to open. It's a ghost of a personal space.
The kitchen smells faintly like something gone off, possibly some of the milk I poured out didn't get fully washed through the pipes. I turn on the water and disposal and let them run for a minute.
Crossing the living room, I throw open the windows, inviting the sea breeze to renew the air. It rustles papers on my counter, next to a stack of unread mail.
I flip through them absentmindedly. It's just flyers and magazines with coupons for local businesses. Beneath them, a crinkled envelope from Coastal Children's Behavioral Health. I hold my breath, fingers hovering over the flap, but leave it unopened for later.
Stepping into my bedroom, I scan the crooked shelf, packed tight with books I haven’t touched in weeks. I want something with mystery, distance, and an escape.
I tuck the book under my arm and breathe in the stale air, flat and heavy, no matter how wide I open the windows. Today is an excellent opportunity to sit on the beach and read with several hours to kill. I could use some salt therapy.
Closing the window and locking up behind me, I slide back into the driver’s seat and let the familiar route carry me toward the ocean.
I pull into Pope's driveway, the car tires crunching over crushed shell as the mid-afternoon sun casts honey-gold light across the landscaped yard. My finger hovers over the garage door opener when movement catches my eye.
Three men in matching navy polos haul equipment across the lawn. One carries a metal framework while another struggles with what looks like an enormous white screen folded into sections.
What in the world?
I step out of the car, novel still clutched in my hand, as a fourth worker wheels a cart holding speakers and what appears to be a projector.
"Excuse me," I call, approaching the nearest man. "What are you setting up?"
He barely glances at me. "Just getting things ready, ma'am."
Ma'am. Great. Nothing makes me feel more like the help than being ma'amed by other service people.
"I'm the—" I stop myself from saying nanny. "I manage the household schedule. Pope didn't mention any installation today."
A different worker hefts a heavy black case from a van. "Boss called this morning. Rush job."
"For what exactly?" I press, watching as they begin assembling frame pieces that must be at least twelve feet tall.
"Movie screen," he offers with a shrug. "Projector setup. Should be done in an hour."
My stomach tightens. A movie night? Some kind of surprise for Lennon that Pope didn't think to mention to me? Or worse, are guests coming over I haven't been told about?
I linger by the edge of the lawn, arms crossed, watching as the massive screen takes shape against the backdrop of swaying palms. The framework rises piece by piece, workers calling measurements to each other as they secure connections.
Whatever this is, Pope clearly didn't think I needed to know. After everything we've shared, I'm still just the nanny who doesn't warrant updates on household plans.
I turn and head inside, the cool air of the house raising goosebumps on my arms. I drop my book on the kitchen counter and place my purse in its usual spot on the shelf. The silence of the empty house wraps around me.
Upstairs, I change into shorts and a light t-shirt, listening to the muffled voices of the workers outside.
I step outside, leaving the rumble of the workers behind. The pool house door swings open with a hiss of warm, chlorine-tinged air.
Inside, I grab a folding chair from the corner and snag a chilled water bottle from the fridge, moving with the same restless energy buzzing under my skin.
Sand grinds under my sandals as I cross the path. The straps bite a little when the grains slip through, gritty against skin.
At the top of the dune, a breeze greets me, warm with salt and a faint edge of seaweed. The beach stretches wide and quiet, the horizon steady in a way I can’t seem to be.
I settle the chair on a patch of soft sand and glance around. A few walkers move along the shoreline, their footprints trailing and washing away as the tide curls in.
With the beach nearly empty, I drop into the chair, spine sinking into the fabric. The book rests in my lap, the cover familiar against my palm. I flip it open, pages fluttering in the wind, but the words blur almost immediately.
Minutes slide by. Then an hour.
The waves roll and crash, steady as a heartbeat. I keep turning pages, but none of it sticks. My mind drifts back, again and again, to Pope and Lennon. I guess a part of me was hoping he would touch base after they left.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. Pope's name flashes on the screen as if my thinking about him summoned a text.
Don't worry about making dinner tonight. We'll be home around 4:45.
I squint at the message, then type back.
What do you have up your sleeve? Looks like a drive-in theater is opening in your backyard.
His response comes quickly.
Surprise for Lennon. Outdoor movie night. He was a trooper today, doing all of this. Thought he could use something special.