29. Sloane
TWENTY-NINE
Sloane
I spread the laminated map across the table, the corners curling up from use. “Okay, Len. Can you find Florida?”
He leans over, his small finger dragging across the states before landing on the peninsula. “Here.”
“That's right. That's where we live, right?”
He smiles and nods, proud of himself.
My smile is automatic, but it falters as I sit back. Every noise is magnified this morning—the rush of water filling the ice maker, the faint buzz of the under-counter lights, the caw of seagulls outside the window.
Lennon’s gaze flicks up, catching something in my face. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he climbs down from his chair and loops his arms around my waist. His cheek presses to my side.
The hug nearly undoes me. I smooth his hair and whisper, “Thanks, buddy.”
He doesn’t ask why I need it. He just squeezes tighter.
I clear my throat, forcing a brighter tone. “Want to try another? How about Georgia? That’s the state right above us. Can you point to Georgia?”
He sticks his tongue out and thinks for a bit and then points to the one right beside Georgia.
"Close. That is Alabama. This is Georgia, right here."
He crosses his arms and studies the map. We've been at this for thirty minutes, now. I think we could both use some fresh air and to move our bones.
"You know what?" I move the wooden map puzzle away with deliberate cheerfulness. "I think we've earned a break. How about we walk on the beach for a bit?"
His face brightens immediately as he plays with his necklace in his mouth. "Can I collect shells?"
"Absolutely."
Outside, the ocean breeze lifts my hair and some of the heaviness from my chest. Lennon runs ahead, stopping to examine every potential treasure. The waves roll in, steady against the sand, too calm for the storm in my head.
"Look!" Lennon races back, holding up a spiral shell with pink and cream stripes. "It's perfect!"
I bend down to his level. "It's beautiful."
"It's for you." He places it in my palm solemnly. "To make you happy again."
I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. "Lennon, I'm so happy. I love our time together. You make me happy."
For the next twenty minutes, Lennon brings me shell after shell. Some are broken, some are whole, each one handed to me like a treasure. I tuck them into my pockets until they bulge.
"You're going to make me sink into the sand," I laugh, and the sound surprises me. It's nice to be able to laugh, even briefly.
“Can I swim?”
“Of course you can. I’ll sit here and watch. Don’t go too far.”
He takes off his shirt and necklace before running toward the shoreline. I put the necklace in my pocket for safekeeping and fold his shirt, holding it up to my face, drinking in his smell.
It’s moments like that that make it all worth it. This kid has shown me so much love and resilience. If he can do it, so can I.
Back at the house, I set Lennon up with a science worksheet. "Take your time with this. I'll be right here if you need help."
While he works, my mind drifts again. Pope's words echo in my head: I love you . Was it real? Or just desperation in the moment?
I catch myself staring blankly at the wall, fingers absently tracing the ridges of Lennon's shell.
I let myself into my apartment, breathing in the slightly stale air. It's funny how quickly a place stops feeling like home.
The small stack of mail teeters on my entry table, where I tossed it the last time I stopped by. Bills, junk, and that unopened envelope from Coastal Children's Behavioral Health.
My fingers hover over it. I'd shoved it aside before, not wanting to face another rejection while I was still licking my wounds. But I need to read if I even have a job at the end of this.
I drop onto my couch and tear it open. My pulse jumps as I unfold the linen paper.
Dear Ms. Brennan,
We are pleased to inform you that the funding issue regarding your position has been resolved. We would like to extend our formal offer for you to join our clinical team.
If the timing works for you, we could set up a start date of Monday, September 15.
I pull up the calendar on my phone. September 15 is exactly two weeks from today. Could I put all of this with Pope finally behind me in as soon as two weeks?
We understand you may have other obligations already lined up, so we will also honor the original ninety-day schedule if that suits you better. Please call the office once you get this letter so we can discuss how we move forward.
My breath catches. They want me. They actually want me.
I scan the rest of the letter, including salary details, benefits package, orientation schedule. Everything else is exactly as the original offer.
Relief floods through me like a physical wave. I'm not damaged goods. I'm not unwanted. I have options.
Lennon's face flashes in my mind, the way he looked this morning when he showered me with shells, the way he was so worried about my happiness when he is the one dealing with unfathomable loss.
And Pope...
I press my palm against my forehead. What a mess. What an absolute, fucking mess.
Taking this job means leaving them both.
I smooth the page flat on my lap. This isn’t my battle. It was never supposed to be permanent. But the words don’t lift the weight in my chest.
My hand trembles as I pick it back up and scan it again. Two paths stretch before me: the career I've worked toward for years, or a few more weeks in a situation that's breaking my heart daily.
I reach for my phone and dial the number at the bottom of the letter. I need more information before I can decide anything.
A receptionist answers on the third ring. "Coastal Children's Behavioral Health."
"Hi, this is Sloane Brennan. I just received your letter about my position, and I'd like to speak with Cindy about the position details."
"Oh, Sloane! I'm so glad you called." Cindy's voice bubbles through the phone, chipper and warm. "We were beginning to worry you might have accepted another position."
"No, nothing like that." I twist a loose thread on my shirt. "I've been working as a live-in nanny while waiting for things to open up, so I don't check my mail regularly."
"A nanny? With your credentials?"
I close my eyes. "It's actually been a good fit. I needed to find something after my position was on hold."
"Well, we're thrilled to have you join our team whenever you're ready." Papers rustle on her end. "Like the letter says, we can start you as early as September 15th or honor the original timeline. Whatever works best for you."
My stomach knots. September 15th.
"About that. My current contract runs through October 3rd." I swallow hard. "But I might be able to get out of it earlier."
Lennon's face flashes in my mind, the way he lights up when we work through school, or when he tells me something new from Seabreeze.
"Either date works perfectly for us," Cindy says. "The September date just gives you the option to start sooner if you'd like. But if you need to honor your commitment through October, we completely understand."
"And the original ninety-day timeline?"
"That would put your start date at October 20th, which is still open, too. Again, totally your call."
I should be relieved. Instead, my chest tightens. Options don’t feel like freedom. They feel like pressure.
"Thank you, Cindy. I need to check with the agency about my contract terms. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."
"Take your time. We're just excited to have you join our clinical team."
Clinical team. My actual career. The one I spent years preparing for.
I hang up, the silence of the apartment pressing in. The phone is heavier than normal.
I scroll to Elite Nanny Services in my contacts, my thumb hovering. I need to know my options, what my contract actually requires. Maybe everyone will be relieved for this to end sooner than planned.
My finger hovers over Vanessa’s name for a full minute before I finally press call. The line rings twice.
"Elite Nanny Services, Vanessa Williams speaking."
"Hi, Vanessa. It’s Sloane Brennan."
"Sloane." Her tone softens, then tilts guarded. "How are things going with the Carrigan placement?"
I twist the shell Lennon gave me between my fingers, the ridges biting into my skin. "Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I have a question about my contract."
"Of course. What can I help with?"
Deep breath. Just say it. "Is there any possibility of ending the arrangement early? I’ve received a job offer in my field that starts sooner than expected."
Silence stretches long enough that I pace a step across the carpet.
"How much sooner?" Vanessa finally asks, her tone clipped.
"Mid-September. About half the time we originally discussed."
"I see." Papers shuffle on her end. "You signed for nine weeks. Two weeks’ notice puts us in a difficult position. It’s not impossible, but live-in placements are harder to backfill, especially for such a short job."
Heat creeps up my neck. "I understand. I haven’t made any decisions yet. I just need to know if it’s an option."
"And Lennon? Has his situation changed?"
The question slices me open. "No. He still needs someone full-time."
"Any issues with the household you’d like to bring up?"
"No." It comes out too fast, almost defensive.
"I see."
"I love working with Lennon," I rush on. "He’s thriving. We’ve made progress. But this job, it’s my career, what I trained for. I need to understand my options. I won't leave Lennon without care, I didn't know if there were other candidates that you considered."
Vanessa sighs. "I can put out feelers, but be clear: there will be financial implications, and I can’t imagine we'll find someone with your skill set to fill in. There’s always someone, but not necessarily someone like you."
I think that was a compliment. Or, maybe it's a guilt trip. Either way, I feel like an asshole even asking.
"I'll reach out to Mr. Carrigan to see what his thoughts are now. Things could have changed on his end, making this a moot point."
A jolt of panic flares. "No, please don’t. Not yet. There’s no need to upset things if I decide to stay. I only wanted to see if a replacement was even possible."
"Understood. But you’ll need to speak with him directly before we can proceed."
"I will. Thank you, Vanessa."
I end the call and set my phone down, my palm damp against the screen. Outside, cars move through the lot, their comings and goings strangely final.
Two weeks or five. Either way, my time with Lennon is finite. And still, the thought of leaving him sooner than I have to makes my chest ache.
I press my forehead to the cool glass, whispering the truth I can’t tell anyone else. "That little boy is the only thing keeping me here."
I sit on the beach blanket watching Lennon chase seagulls along the shoreline, his laughter carrying on the breeze. The sun hangs low in the sky, painting everything gold.
"Sloane! Look how fast they fly!" He points excitedly as a flock scatters.
"Super fast," I call back, forcing enthusiasm into my voice.
My mind keeps circling back to that letter from Coastal Children's, to my conversation with Vanessa. A dream job versus a temporary position that was never meant to be permanent.
Lennon runs back, cheeks flushed with exertion. "Can we build a sandcastle before dinner?"
"A quick one." I crouch down, helping him scoop wet sand. "Then we need to head back and start cooking."
We shape towers and carve moats, his tongue poking out in concentration. He pats each mound with careful precision, as if the whole structure depends on his small hands. A lump forms in my throat. These tiny, ordinary moments are what I’ll miss most.
Maybe it’s better if I step away sooner. Cleaner for everyone. Less messy for Pope. No stories for Chris to twist. Just distance.
"Time to go, buddy." I guide him to the surf, rinsing grit from his fingers. The waves lick at our ankles, cool and fleeting.
"Okay. We are making pizza, right?"
"You bet. Race you to the house!"
Later, as I tuck Lennon into bed, he grabs my hand.
"Will you read the shark book again?"
"Of course." I pull the well-worn book from his shelf, settling beside him.
Three pages in, his eyelids grow heavy. By page five, he’s out, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. I close the book softly and smooth his hair back.
“I’ll figure this out,” I whisper. “I’ll do what’s best for you, even if it hurts.”