18. The Babysitter Test
The Babysitter Test
COOPER
The hallway outside Sloane’s apartment smells like floor wax and the faint, lingering ghost of a neighbor’s overly ambitious curry.
I’m standing here with a grocery bag in one hand and a mental list of all the ways I could potentially screw this up in the other.
It’s six o'clock, and according to the frantic, one-handed text Sloane sent me twenty minutes ago, the legal team at NovaWave has decided that ‘emergency’ is their favorite Tuesday night aesthetic.
The door swings open before I can even knock, revealing a version of Sloane Donovan that looks like she’s been fighting a war with a paper shredder.
Her hair, usually a sharp, controlled bob, is coming loose from its pins, and her eyes have that manic, caffeinated glow I’ve learned to associate with corporate litigation.
She’s already wearing her coat, one arm through a sleeve, her phone pressed to her ear with her shoulder.
"I don't care about the indemnity clause, Graham," she says, her voice a low, dangerous vibration. "I care about the fact that you're trying to sell my private correspondence as promotional material. I’ll be there in fifteen. Hold the elevator or don't, I’m coming anyway."
She drops her shoulder, the phone sliding into her palm, and looks at me.
It’s a look that’s about eighty percent suspicion and twenty percent genuine, soul-deep exhaustion.
This is the ultimate test. Not a podcast recording, not a marketing meeting, but the keys to the kingdom.
Or at least, the keys to the apartment where her six-year-old is currently singing a song about dinosaurs in the living room.
"You’re sure about this?" she asks, her thumb hovering over the lock on her screen.
"Milo is... high energy. And he’s already had a juice box, which was a strategic error on my part.
I haven't vetted your childcare skills, Cooper.
For all I know, you think a balanced diet is three different types of cereal. "
I offer her the bag, letting the scent of fresh strawberries and frozen pizza do the talking for me.
"I have a sister who’s a therapist and three nephews who think I’m a professional wrestler.
I promise to return him with all his limbs attached and a moderate understanding of the Hero’s Journey.
Go. Fight the suits. I’ve got the home front. "
Sloane hesitates. It’s a small, flickering moment where I can see the battle between her need for absolute control and the reality of a legal team that won't wait. She’s built this fortress around her life, brick by brick, after being burned by someone who was supposed to be her mentor.
Letting me in isn't just about babysitting; it’s about a breach in the perimeter.
"There’s a list on the fridge," she says, finally stepping aside. "Emergency contacts, allergies, and the exact volume level that constitutes a 'noise violation.' If he asks for a second juice box, the answer is a hard no. Not a soft no, Cooper. A hard, investigative-journalism no."
"Hard no. Received and understood," I say, stepping into the warm, lived-in space that smells like Sloane—lavender and old books and something sharp, like citrus. "Go, Sloane. I’ll text you if the dinosaurs stage a coup."
She looks at me for one more beat, her gaze lingering on my face long enough that I feel a strange, tightening heat in my chest. It’s not the flirtatious performance Rhea wants from us.
It’s something quieter. Something that feels like a question she’s not ready to ask yet.
Then, with a sharp nod, she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
"Cooper!" Milo’s voice erupts from the living room, followed by the frantic thumping of feet on carpet. He skids around the corner, wearing a cape made of a blue bath towel and a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. "Mom said you’re the boss of the pizza! Are we doing the pepperoni volcano?"
I set the grocery bag on the counter, looking down at the miniature version of the most complicated woman I’ve ever met.
He has her eyes—observant and quick—but his smile is all sunshine.
"The pepperoni volcano is a mandatory requirement of the Ellis Babysitting Agreement, Milo. But first, I need to know: what’s the status of the LEGO Batman? Is he still missing his head?"
Milo’s face goes serious, his cape fluttering as he stands to attention. "He’s in surgery. But the Joker stole the ambulance. We have to go get it."
The next three hours are a masterclass in domestic chaos.
We build a fortress out of sofa cushions that would make an architect weep.
we negotiate the terms of a treaty between the LEGO superheroes and a group of plastic dinosaurs, and I manage to bake a pizza that is only slightly charred around the edges.
Milo is a whirlwind of questions and sound effects, a living reminder of why Sloane is so protective.
He’s everything good in the world, wrapped in a blue bath towel.
By nine o'clock, the energy is finally starting to flag.
The pepperoni volcano has been consumed, the Joker has been apprehended, and the LEGO Batman has been successfully re-headed.
Milo is sitting on the couch, his head drooping toward my shoulder as we watch a cartoon about a square-shaped sponge.
The blue towel is now a blanket, tucked around his knees.
"Cooper?" he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. "Do you have to go back to the shiny building tomorrow? With the microphones?"
I look down at the top of his head, feeling a surge of something that feels dangerously like possessiveness. "I do, buddy. It’s my job. But I’ll be back. I promise."
"Good," he sighs, his eyes drifting shut. "You make the pizza better than Noah. He always forgets the volcano. And he doesn't know how to do the Batman voice right."
The mention of his father sends a small, cold chill through the room.
I think about the dossier Rhea sent me—the one I’m still keeping from Sloane.
I think about the way Noah uses 'good mother' rhetoric as a weapon. I tighten my arm around Milo, just slightly, pulling him closer to my side. He’s so small, and the world Sloane is trying to shield him from is so incredibly loud.
The silence of the apartment settles around us, punctuated only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic breathing of a sleeping six-year-old.
I find myself looking around the room, noticing the details of Sloane’s life that she doesn't let anyone see. There’s a stack of investigative journals on the coffee table, a pair of worn-out slippers tucked under the armchair, and a framed drawing on the wall that says 'Mom is a Hero' in shaky, colorful crayon.
She’s not just a razor-tongued podcast host. She’s this.
The quiet, the slippers, the carefully maintained world of a boy who thinks she can fix anything.
And the more I see of it, the more I realize that the 'No-Bull' brand isn't a mask. It’s a shield. She isn't grumpy because it’s her personality; she’s grumpy because she’s tired of being the only one standing at the gate.
I must have drifted off myself, the weight of the day and the warmth of the couch finally catching up to me. The last thing I remember is the flickering blue light of the TV and the feeling of Milo’s small hand tucked against my shirt.
A soft click wakes me. The sound of a key turning in a lock, followed by the low, muffled rustle of a coat being hung up.
I keep my eyes closed for a second, my heart doing a slow, heavy thrum against my ribs.
I know that rhythm. I know the way the air in the room changes when Sloane Donovan enters it.
It’s like the atmospheric pressure suddenly drops, making everything feel sharper, more significant.
I open my eyes to find her standing in the doorway.
She’s still in her professional attire, but she’s kicked off her heels, standing barefoot on the hardwood, her toes curling slightly against the cold grain.
Her gaze is fixed on the couch—on Milo, curled into my side, and on me, my arm still draped protectively around him.
The blue towel-cape is tangled between us.
She doesn't say anything. She just stands there, her hand resting on the doorframe, her expression unreadable in the dim light of the television. For a long, charged minute, the only sound is the quiet cartoon credits rolling on the screen. The silence isn't awkward; it’s heavy. It’s the kind of silence that happens right before a storm breaks, or right after a confession.
I start to shift, careful not to wake Milo, but she makes a small, sharp gesture with her hand. Stay.
She walks toward us, her movements silent on the carpet.
She stops at the edge of the couch, looking down at her son.
Her face softens in a way that makes my throat tighten.
This is the version of Sloane that the listeners never hear—the one who looks at her child like he’s the only thing in the universe with a fixed point of gravity. Then, her eyes lift to mine.
There’s no suspicion there now. No razor-tongued retort waiting to be fired.
There’s something else. A vulnerability so raw it feels like a physical heat.
She’s looking at me as if she’s seeing something she didn't think existed, or something she’s spent a long time trying to convince herself she didn't need.
"He’s out cold," I whisper, my voice sounding like it’s been dragged over gravel. "The Joker never stood a chance."
Sloane reaches down, her fingers grazing the edge of the blue towel near my hand.
She doesn't pull it away. Her touch is light, almost accidental, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to my marrow. We’re in this tiny, shared orbit, the air between us thick with the things we’ve been avoiding saying for weeks.
The corporate sabotage, the leaked audio, the manufactured rivalry—it all feels like static compared to this.
"You’re still here," she says, her voice so quiet I can barely hear it. It’s not a question. It’s a realization.
"I told you I would be," I say. I look at her, really look at her, letting the denial loops finally snap. I’m not just here for the show. I’m not here because Graham told me to be.
I’m here because I don't want to be anywhere else.
I want to be the person she trusts with the keys.
I want to be the one who knows where the slippers are kept and how to do the Batman voice.
Sloane’s breath hitches. She pulls her hand back, but she doesn't look away. The wall isn't gone—she’s too smart for that—but there’s a crack in it now, wide enough for the light to get through.
She looks down at Milo, then back at me, and I see her throat move as she swallows.
She looks terrified. More terrified than she was of the legal team or the PR disaster.
"The meeting was a nightmare," she says, reverting to the safety of facts. "Graham wants to use the 'tension' from the livestream as a hook for the retreat. They’re looking for a narrative, Cooper. They’re looking for something they can sell."
"Let them look," I say, leaning back slightly, still anchored by the sleeping boy. "They can’t sell what they don't own. And they don't own this."
I gesture to the room, to the cushion fortress, to the quiet domesticity of the moment.
Sloane looks around the apartment as if she’s seeing it for the first time—the way I’ve integrated myself into her space, however briefly.
She looks like a woman who’s just realized she’s lost a battle she didn't even know she was fighting.
"Go to bed, Sloane," I say softly. "I’ll carry him to his room. You look like you’re about to fall over."
She hesitates, then nods, a small, weary movement. "Thank you, Cooper. For... everything. The pizza. The volcano. All of it."
She turns to walk away, but stops at the edge of the hallway. She looks back over her shoulder, her hair silhouetted against the dim light. "Don't forget the Batman voice tomorrow. Milo will be checking for consistency."
"Consistency is my specialty," I say, the words feeling heavier than they should.
I watch her walk down the hall, the quiet click of her bedroom door sounding like a period at the end of a long, complicated sentence—one I'm not entirely sure I want to finish reading.
I look back down at Milo, who is dreaming of superheroes and pepperoni.
The sight of us together, mirrored in the dark glass of the TV, feels like a warning.
A dangerous, beautiful, terrifying promise of what happens when you stop being a co-host and start becoming a part of the architecture.
I didn't just pass the babysitter test. I think I just rewritten the whole exam.
I did not sleep well after that, the image of Sloane's bare feet and vulnerable eyes burned into the back of my eyelids.