Chapter 5
Rika
The coffee in my mug has gone cold, and I'm still no closer to solving my childcare problem.
I stare at the mug and wonder when I last drank a cup of coffee while it was actually still hot. Probably years ago. My life is a constant game of catch-up where I perpetually stay three steps behind.
Ugh, I'm running on fumes, and I know it.
Too bad. Pick yourself up by the bootstraps, girl.
Well, that's dramatic. It's not like my life is always a hectic mess, is it? Well, maybe it is.
Ugh, again. Double ugh. At least I don't have to contend with Mitchell nagging me about keeping the house cleaner or cooking more elaborate meals.
Or losing some of the roundness around my ass that my stress-eating has inevitably caused.
He's gone, and his criticisms and petty comments are gone with him.
Enough. You're turning into a bitter old shrew.
I take another sip of cold coffee and wince at the taste, then I double down on my research for a new nanny on the main nanny agency websites where I found all my previous nannies.
I've sent three requests for interviews last night, and they all declined already.
All were polite, but they gave no reason why they refused to even interview with me.
I'm pretty sure Margaret made good on her promise to spread my reputation far and wide in the nanny-sphere, if such a thing exists.
Still, I can't afford not to try, so I keep scrolling through nanny placement websites, reading profiles that all blur together into a mess of smiling faces and glowing references.
I send five more messages requesting interviews with potential candidates, then close the laptop with more force than necessary and press my palms against my eyes.
Breathe, Rika. Just breathe.
But breathing doesn't solve the fact that I have back-to-back client meetings tomorrow starting at eight a.m. or that Matthew needs to get to his soccer practice at four p.m. or that Zoe thinks I'm a terrible mother.
I'm pretty sure she has a point, anyway.
My phone buzzes on the table. I glance at the screen and see a text from Geraldine, my office manager and the only person in my life who doesn't sugarcoat anything.
Geraldine: Heard about the nanny. You okay?
I type back quickly.
Me: Define okay.
Geraldine: Fair point. Need me to move tomorrow's meetings?
God, yes. I want to say yes so badly it makes my teeth ache. But I can't. The Hendersons are one of my biggest clients and I still have to finalize their quarterly taxes, and the Pazteks need their business deduction consultation before they file next week.
I'm stuck.
Me: No. I'll be there.
Geraldine: You're going to burn out.
Me: Already there. Maybe I'll just rise from my own ashes like a phoenix.
Geraldine: Caw-Caw.
I chuckle, then set the phone down and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
A pair of headlights sweep across the front window, cutting through the dark.
Mom is here with the kids. I push to my feet, my wings fluttering automatically to help me move faster, and I'm in my living room, halfway to the door when it swings open without a knock.
Behind her are the kids, first Matthew, who storms inside, chatting about his robotics project coming up, and then Zoe, dragging her feet as usual. I greet and hug them both, then turn to my mom.
Belinda Everdeen sweeps into my house like the force of nature she is.
She wears a flowing psychedelic print tunic, yoga pants, and enough bracelets and crystal necklaces to make a dragon want to stuff her into its treasure room.
Her silver-and-pastel hair catches the overhead light, arranged in a loose bun atop her head.
And she's mercifully carrying a bottle of wine in one hand, swinging it over her head like a sign at a protest.
"The kids ate dinner at my house," Mom announces as she gives my daughter a pointed look. "And now they're going to go do homework in their rooms."
Matthew nods dutifully, and Zoe rolls her eyes, but both kids trudge upstairs without arguing. Mom pulls me into a fierce hug, her silver wings brushing against mine in that instinctive pixie gesture of comfort, and something inside me cracks just a little.
I let myself sag into her for exactly three seconds.
Then I pull back and straighten my spine, brushing a loose strand of hair out of my face.
"It's fine," I say, my voice clipped. "Everything's fine. I just need to clone myself and maybe invent a time machine. Or swear off sleep for a few years. That should do it."
Mom gives me a look that says she's not buying my bullshit chirpy attitude for a second, but she doesn't push. Instead, she swings the wine bottle over her head again and heads for my kitchen. I follow behind her about half a heartbeat later.
I can't say I'm not glad she brought wine. I'm wound up so tight, I'm afraid my wings will snap off.
"Sit," she says firmly.
I want to argue, but honestly? I'm too tired.
I sink back into my chair at the kitchen table, and Mom pours us each a generous glass of red wine. She slides one across to me and takes the seat opposite, folding her hands on the table.
"Talk to me," she says gently.
So I do.
I give her the condensed version: I can't seem to find another nanny. Maybe I never will. When I finish, I take a long sip of wine and try not to think about how close I am to crying.
Mom is quiet for a moment, her turquoise eyes soft with sympathy.
"Being a mother is hard. Being a single mom? It's doubly as hard," she says carefully. "I should know. I did it."
I know. Belinda Everdeen is the rock I built my entire life on. I don't remember my father much, since he passed when I was only four, but I do remember how my mother picked herself up by her yoga-bootstraps and dug herself out of what should have been an endless pit of grief.
She was a great mom. She still is. I remember how hard she worked, how she juggled her small business and raised me all on her own. I don't know how she managed to be so strong, underneath all that free-spirited exterior.
I wish I could be half as strong. But I'm not. I'm at my breaking point, and I feel like a gigantic failure.
"I can take the kids tomorrow after school again," Mom says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "They can hang out at the studio with me until you get off from work. But Rika, honey, this can't be a full-time thing."
Relief washes over me, sharp and immediate. Then guilt bites, hard. My mom shouldn't have to bail me out like that. I know she's right. I know it's not her responsibility to take care of my children every day. She has her own life, her own business, her own plans.
"Thank you, that would be amazing," I say, forcing a smile that feels brittle and fake. "And don't worry, I understand, Mom. I've got it under control."
Her eyes search mine, and I can see she doesn't believe me.
Neither do I. If I can just get through the next few weeks, I'll figure it out.
I always figure it out.
Underneath, though, the stone in my stomach doesn't let me forget that I'm lying to myself. Mom reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, her silver wings fluttering softly behind her.
"You're doing the best you can," she says. "And you're a damn good mother."
The kindness in her voice almost makes me cry. I squeeze her hand back and nod, not trusting myself to speak.
The doorbell rings.
Mom goes suspiciously still for a beat, then her expression shifts into something bright and cheerful that immediately sets off alarm bells in my head.
"Oh!" she says, standing up. "That'll be Noah."
I blink. "Who?"
"Oh, I told you about my new employee, didn't I?" She's already moving toward the door, her wings shimmering under the kitchen light. "He's been working for me part-time for about six months now."
No. No, she did not tell me anything about a Noah. Well, maybe she did? I honestly don't remember.
"Mom." I push to my feet, my pulse spiking. "Why is your employee coming to my home?"
She pauses at the door, her hand on the doorframe, and gives me a smile that's equal parts innocent and devious.
"Noah worked as a nanny for six years for a wealthy dragon family in Boston," she says quickly.
"He moved back to Saltford Bay about six months ago because his last family relocated to Singapore.
He's looking for work to tide him over until he can find a teaching position, and I thought he would be perfect for you. "
"You ambushed me?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend. "You seriously ambushed me with a surprise interview after the worst week I've had in months?"
"It's not an ambush," Mom says, waving a hand dismissively. Her crystal bracelets click merrily as she moves, like tiny alarm bells. Yeah. She knows what she did. "It's an opportunity. Noah is perfect, Rika. He's experienced, he's kind, he's great with kids—"
"He's a man."
The words hang in the air.
Mom's expression hardens, and I recognize that look. It's the one she gets when she's about to call me out on my bullshit. Which she often does.
"Are you seriously that old-fashioned?" she asks, lifting her brows. "Men can care for children just as well as women can. Just because Mitchell never lifted a finger in the house doesn't mean it's normal."
The mention of Mitchell stings, sharp and immediate. My jaw tightens. I want to argue. I want to tell her that hiring a male nanny feels weird and uncomfortable and like yet another thing I'm going to screw up.
But I also know she's right about men in general and Mitchell in particular.
Mitchell never helped. He never changed a diaper, never packed a lunch, never stayed up late with a sick kid. He was too busy building his real estate career and, apparently, sleeping with my best friend.
But that doesn't mean all men are like him.
Does it?