27. Sloane
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sloane
"Okay, what's the next word? b-o-o-k. Book." I tap the flashcard and watch Lennon's face scrunch in concentration.
"That's a trick one," he says, pencil hovering over the paper.
"You're right. Not all letters make the sounds we expect. What do you think?"
Morning sunshine streams through the kitchen windows, casting golden rectangles across our worksheets. The fridge hums quietly behind us, punctuated by the scratch of Lennon's pencil against paper.
He writes carefully, sounding out each letter. "p-o-o-l."
"Perfect! Great job remembering the how the double letters work."
My smile is mechanical, like my face is performing the right movements while the rest of me remains hollow. I've barely slept, replaying Pope's words over and over.
The goddamned nanny. Who I fuck.
Why, after everything he's ever said to me, is that what sticks? I wish I could erase that whole morning from my brain. Even if he ended it with me, hearing those words makes it a thousand times worse.
Lennon looks up from his paper, brown eyes studying my face. He holds up one of the emotion cards we keep close by. It's the one with the frowning face. "Are you sad?"
The question hits like a punch to the chest. Even a seven-year-old can see through me.
"No, sweetie." I smooth his dark hair, letting my hand linger on his warm head. "I'm just a little tired today."
Footsteps creak overhead. Pope is moving around his bedroom. His muffled voice carries through the ceiling as he takes a call, reminding me he's deliberately staying away.
"...need those numbers before noon..." His voice fades as he moves. He must have been standing at the top of the stairs for me to have heard him so clearly. Was he listening in on us?
My chest tightens. Just over twenty-four hours ago, we were tangled in his sheets. Now he can't even come downstairs to say good morning.
"Sloane?" Lennon's voice pulls me back.
"Sorry, buddy. Let's look at the next word." I flip to another card, forcing brightness into my voice. "This one is hoop. h-o-o-p."
More footsteps overhead.
Lennon bends over his worksheet, carefully forming each letter. His dark hair falls forward, shielding his eyes, just like Pope's does when he's concentrating.
I reach for my phone, sliding it from my pocket while Lennon works through all of the words. I need to talk to someone who won't judge me for being such a fool. Someone who will understand how I could have mistaken convenience for connection.
Hey Angela, any chance we could chat later?
I type quickly, careful to keep my screen angled away from Lennon's curious eyes.
The footsteps above move toward the stairs, then stop. The silence that follows weighs more than any sound could.
My phone screen lights up with Angela's reply almost immediately.
Absolutely! Field of Greens after we drop the boys off? Tyler doesn't have Mother's Morning Out today, but he's a perfect lunch date. He’s having an early nap, so he should be good to go.
Something in my chest loosens. Just a little.
Perfect. See you there.
I set my phone face-down on the table and glance at Lennon, who's still working on "hoop," his tongue poking out between his lips in concentration. The curve of his cheek reminds me so much of Pope that it hurts.
"How's it coming, bud?"
Lennon lifts his paper, proudly displaying his careful lettering. "Done. I remembered the two o's sound like u .”
"That's right." I slide another flashcard forward. "Want to try one more before we take a break?"
He nods, brushing hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. His quiet diligence steadies me, gives me purpose while everything else is spinning apart.
The footsteps upstairs have stopped. Pope has either slipped downstairs to his office unnoticed, or is deliberately staying put until we're gone. Probably both.
I swallow hard and focus on Lennon's worksheet. The mundane rhythm of homeschooling carries us through the next half hour. My brain operates on autopilot while my heart aches beneath my ribs.
"Sloane, can we have a snack?" Lennon's voice breaks through my thoughts. "All of this hard work is making me hungry."
"Of course." I stand, grateful for the distraction. "Actually, it's time for lunch. How about you play with your Legos while I get it ready?”
"Okay," he yells as he runs into the playroom without a second look.
While cutting fruit, I glance at my phone again. Lunch with Angela is my lifeline. I need to get out of this house.
The knife slips, nearly catching my finger.
"Careful," Lennon says seriously.
"Oh, you snuck on me, you little fox."
He laughs and wipes his nose with the back of his arm.
I manage a smile. "You're right. Need to pay attention."
After lunch, I help Lennon pack his backpack for Seabreeze. We both make sure we go through each item: water bottle, sunscreen, hat, and the journal where he's recording tide patterns.
It's good for me, even if everything weighs on me right now. Just thirty more minutes, and I can bounce some of this off Angela.
The restaurant hums with lunchtime energy as I slide into the booth across from Angela. Tyler sits in a high chair at the end, happily gumming a teething ring.
"He looks bigger every time I see him," I say, reaching out to tickle one chubby foot.
Angela smiles, those dimples, the same ones Tyler inherited, deepening in her cheeks. "Growth spurt. Nothing fits anymore."
The server sets down our order: quinoa bowls topped with roasted vegetables for us, a smoothie for me, iced tea for Angela, and pureed sweet potatoes for Tyler.
I stir my smoothie absently, the straw dragging slow circles through the thick pink liquid. The words don’t come, but Angela’s quiet, her gaze steady while she spoons another bite of puree toward Tyler.
“You look like something’s weighing on you,” she says finally. “Wanna talk about it?”
My laugh comes out brittle. “What makes you think something’s weighing on me?”
“Because earlier this week you had that glow,” she says simply, eyes flicking up to mine. “Today you look like you’d rather crawl under the table.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. I lower my voice. “It felt so real with him. I think I've been played. He’s completely shut down, won’t even come downstairs when we’re in the kitchen.”
"Since when? Last time you were talking about pool you-know-what."
"Yesterday."
Angela’s brows lift just a little, not judgmental, just curious. “So what changed? Did you fight?”
"That's the thing, nothing happened. We had an amazing night the night before last, when Lennon spent the night. I woke up in his bed, and I overheard him on the phone."
"On the phone doing what? Another woman?"
"I don't know who. He was outside. I heard him refer to me as 'the goddamned nanny' and he talked about 'who I fuck.' Like I'm just that, a f—." I stop myself when I remember Tyler. He can't understand what I'm saying, but still.
Angela's eyes widen. "Oh, honey."
"I'm so stupid." The quinoa sticks in my throat as I try to swallow. "I actually thought we were building something. How dumb could I have been?"
Angela wipes Tyler's chin, her movements thoughtful. "I have to say, I'm surprised."
"Not as surprised as me. It came out of nowhere."
"Have you considered that there might be someone else? Didn't you say he's from Denver? Maybe there's someone back there."
My stomach drops. The possibility hasn't crossed my mind.
"I don't think so. He doesn't seem like—" But what do I know about Pope Carrigan, really? A few intense weeks, a handful of nights. "I never actually asked if he was single."
"Men." Angela rolls her eyes. "They'll happily take what's offered without mentioning the girlfriend in another city."
Tyler bangs his spoon against the tray, demanding attention. Angela catches it before it hits the floor.
"You deserve clarity, Sloane." She reaches across to squeeze my hand. "At minimum."
The conversation shifts as Tyler starts fussing. Angela entertains him with peek-a-boo while I push vegetables around my bowl, my appetite gone. We chat about the boys' progress at Seabreeze, the curriculum for next week, normal things that seem like they're happening to someone else.
I'm both relieved to have spoken the words aloud and devastated by the new possibilities Angela has raised. What if there is someone? What if I've been nothing but a convenient distraction?
When we part with hugs in the parking lot, I'm more unsure than when I arrived.
Darkness softens the edges of the kitchen as I wipe down the last of the dinner plates. Lennon went down twenty minutes ago, worn out from a long day. The monitor on the counter catches his gentle breathing, the slight whistling sound he makes when he's in deep sleep.
My fingers trace the cool marble countertop. The house is empty without Pope's presence filling the rooms. But it's easier this way. Easier to breathe when he's not here, when I don't have to pretend his words didn't slice me open.
The front door opens with a soft click. Keys jingle in the foyer. Fuck. I should have snuck upstairs when I had the chance. Hopefully, he will retreat to his office and give me the chance to disappear.
I hear his footsteps coming my way.
My pulse quickens, betraying me. I grab the dish towel, focusing on drying the pot I just washed.
Pope appears in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dim hallway light. His tie is loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks tired.
"Hi." His voice is rough, uncertain.
"Hi."
The silence stretches between us, elastic and dangerous. I can't keep drying this pot, so I switch to folding the dish towel, draping it over the oven handle with unnecessary precision.
Pope takes a step into the kitchen. Then another. "How was Lennon today?"
Our safe conversation. I'm just the nanny, this is my job. I repeat this over and over like a mantra.
"Good. He built a whole city in the sand with Micah. They named it Shark Town."
A small smile touches his lips. He moves closer, his fingertips brushing the counter's edge.
"Sloane, I?—"
Something shifts in his expression. The mask of professionalism slips, revealing something raw underneath. He opens his mouth like the words are right there, waiting to spill out.
A low moan crackles through the baby monitor, followed by rustling sheets, and then a cry out, "Mommy, Mommy."
My body moves before my brain can intervene. I grab the monitor, already heading for the stairs.
"I'll check on him."
Pope's hand reaches out, almost touching my arm, but stopping short. "Do you want me to?—"
"No, it's fine. I've got it."
I take the stairs two at a time, relief and regret warring in my chest. In Lennon's room, he's twisted in his sheets with his frightened face scrunched.
"Hey, buddy." I smooth his hair, keeping my voice soft. "You're okay."
"Water," he mumbles, eyes half-open.
I help him sip from the cup on his nightstand, straighten his blankets, and sit on the edge of the bed until his breathing evens out again. When I'm certain he's asleep, I remain perched there, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
I should go back downstairs, see what Pope has to say. Maybe he wants to explain, to take back those cruel words.
But what if he doesn't? What if he just wants to use me again?
Minutes tick by. The house settles around me. I lean against the wall beside Lennon's bed, knees pulled to my chest. If I go downstairs, I might fall under Pope's spell again. I might believe whatever explanation he offers because I want to believe it.
So I stay, guarding Lennon's sleep, guarding my heart, until my own eyes grow heavy.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow I'll be stronger.
The doorbell chimes three times before I reach the front entrance. I square my shoulders and paste on a professional smile. I'm exhausted from the night spent half-sleeping against Lennon's wall, but no one needs to know that.
Tasha Jenkins, the weekend nanny, stands at the door. Her silver-streaked hair is pulled into a neat bun. She wears tailored khakis and a crisp blue button-down, with a leather portfolio tucked under one arm.
"Good morning, Sloane." Her handshake is firm, efficient.
"Hi, Tasha. Good to see you again."
Lennon peeks from behind the staircase, his space t-shirt rumpled from sleep. When he spots Tasha, he shrinks back.
"Good morning, Lennon." Tasha's voice stays warm but measured, not rising to the sugary pitch many adults use with children. "You remember me from last weekend?"
Lennon drifts to my side, pressing against my leg without speaking. His fingers curl into the fabric of my shorts.
"I just finished preparing breakfast," I say, placing a gentle hand on Lennon's shoulder. "You ready to eat, Bud?"
Lennon doesn't answer, but instead presses his face into my thigh.
"Is Mr. Carrigan here this weekend?"
"You know, I'm not sure. I know he's been spending a lot of time at the hospital." I haven't seen Pope all morning. His car was gone when I woke up. Whatever he's doing, he isn't telling me. I'll let Tasha read the tea leaves, at least for the next two days.
"Will you stay?" Lennon's small voice interrupts, his fingers tightening around mine.
My chest constricts. "No, buddy. Ms. Tasha is here on weekends. Remember? I'll see you Monday morning when you wake up."
His brown eyes, so much like Pope's, brim with confusion. "But who will make pancakes?"
"I can make pancakes," Tasha offers smoothly, crouching to his level. "Do you like blueberries or chocolate chips?"
Lennon presses closer instead of answering.
"He likes both," I say, forcing my voice steady. "Half and half on the same pancake."
"Lennon, I brought a puzzle," Tasha adds gently, bending down to meet him at my legs. "Maybe you and I can try it while you eat breakfast."
He looks up at me, a silent question in his eyes.
"It's okay," I whisper.
Slowly, reluctantly, he lets go, each finger slipping from mine like a goodbye.
I grab my purse, keys jangling too brightly. "I'll see you Monday, Lennon. Have fun."
The house is suddenly foreign as I step toward the door. Behind me, Tasha steers him toward the kitchen table, her tone calm, practiced, but missing the softness he’s used to.
I pause at the threshold, watching his small shoulders slump as he sits. Neither of them looks back.
The weekend yawns open ahead of me, two days of silence and a sparse apartment.
Replaceable. Temporary. Just the nanny.