Chapter 7 #2
Emma folds her arms across her chest and stares at him with such pure defiance that I almost want to laugh. Almost. Because underneath that cherubic exterior is clearly a kid who knows exactly what she’s doing and isn’t sorry about it at all.
Okay, so maybe she’s not so angelic after all.
I crouch down slowly, not going for my stuff yet, just lowering myself until I’m in Emma’s line of sight. She’s still glaring at her father, pointedly not looking at me.
“Hey,” I say quietly, and she shifts her glare to me, those blue eyes sharp and assessing. “I get it. You’re angry.”
She doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m a threat.
“You don’t want another nanny. You definitely don’t want some random person coming into your house and touching your stuff and acting like they belong here when they don’t.
” I pause, making sure she’s still listening, and she is—I can tell by the way her shoulders have gone a tiny bit less rigid.
“But those are my things on the floor, and I need them. So I’d like you to help me pick them up, please. ”
Her eyes dart to Leo, seeking reinforcement or rescue. He meets her look, and after a tense beat, gives a single, slow nod. He is ceding this battlefield to me.
Emma looks back at me, and I can see the wheels turning in her head, trying to figure out what to do now that her little act of defiance hasn’t gotten the reaction she wanted.
Then, without saying anything, she turns around and starts picking things up. Not all of them, and not quickly, but she’s doing it. She bends down and grabs a subway token, then my keys, offering them to me in her small hands like they’re something precious instead of the junk they actually are.
Relief floods through me, sweet and cool, and I start gathering my stuff too, reaching for my wallet and the receipts that have scattered everywhere.
We work in silence for a moment, this weird little team, and I’m trying not to think about how Leo is still standing there watching us, probably wondering what the hell is happening.
Emma picks up the tampon.
“What’s this?” she asks, holding it up like it’s a prize she’s won.
My cheeks immediately flame hot and I can hear Leo behind me making this sound like he’s choking, trying not to laugh. I want to turn around and strangle him but I’m trying to maintain some semblance of composure and also I have no idea what to say.
Should I lie? Tell her it’s a toy or a magic wand or some other ridiculous thing that will inevitably make this worse when she figures out the truth? Or should I just be honest?
I clear my throat. “It’s a tampon.”
Emma’s eyes go wide, interested now instead of suspicious. “What’s it for?”
Oh my God. Of course she’s going to ask follow-up questions.
“It’s…it’s something women use when they have their period.
” I’m trying to keep my voice matter-of-fact, like this is a completely normal conversation to be having with a four-year-old I met thirty seconds ago while her father watches from three feet away.
“Which is something that happens to girls when they get older. Your body does some stuff and you need these to help.”
“Does it hurt?” Emma asks, and there’s genuine concern in her voice now, like she’s worried about me.
I let out a surprised laugh because that’s actually kind of sweet. “Sometimes a little. But it’s normal. It’s just part of being a grown-up.”
“Oh.” She hands it back to me carefully, like she doesn’t want to break it. “That sounds not fun.”
“Yeah, it’s not my favorite thing,” I admit, tucking it back into my purse quickly before we can continue this particular line of conversation.
Emma moves on to the next item, thank God, and when she picks up the disposable camera she completely transforms. Her whole face lights up, those blue eyes going wide with excitement.
“What’s this?” She’s holding it like it’s treasure, turning it over in her hands.
I’m still kneeling on the floor, gathering the last few subway tokens, and I glance up at her. “It’s a disposable camera. You take pictures with it.”
“How?”
I point to the viewfinder. “You look through here, and when you see something you want to keep, you press this button. It traps the picture inside.”
Her breath catches. “That’s magic.”
“It really is,” I agree, and then I get an idea. “Want to see?”
At her eager nod, I take the camera. Leo is still propped against the wall, arms crossed, watching this entire surreal détente with an expression of bewildered fascination. Before I can think better of it, I raise the camera, point it at his suspicious, handsome face, and press the button.
The flash pops and he flinches. “Hey!”
Emma and I both giggle, and it’s such a light, unexpected sound that for a second I forget I’m in the apartment of a man who hates me, interviewing for a job I’m definitely not going to get.
“Can I try?” Emma asks, already reaching for the camera.
“Sure.” I hand it over, showing her how to hold it steady. “Just look through here and press this button when you’re ready.”
She points it at Leo, her tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.
“You have to make a funny face, Daddy,” she tells him, and there’s still that giggle in her voice, like she’s extremely delighted by this entire turn of events.
He sighs, the long-suffering sigh of the eternally besieged. “Must I?”
“Yep,” Emma says, so matter-of-fact about it that I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
He mutters something under his breath that I don’t quite catch—probably something about dignity or why he agreed to any of this—but then Emma starts counting. “One…two…three!”
He mutters something darkly, but as she begins to count—“One…two…three!”—he contorts his features into a glorious, ridiculous grotesque: crossed eyes, tongue lolling, nose scrunched. Emma clicks the button, the flash goes off, and she squeals with delight.
Leo tosses a glare in my direction, like this is somehow my fault, which—okay, fair—it is.
“When do I see it?” Emma asks, cradling the camera.
“The pictures are trapped inside the film. I have to take it to a shop to get them developed. It takes a few days.”
“Can you bring them when they’re done?” Her eyes are enormous, pleading.
“If…if that’s alright,” I say, glancing at Leo.
He gives a curt, begrudging nod.
“Yes!” She bounces on her toes, the earlier storm utterly forgotten. She beams at me, and in that smile, I see not an angel, but a real, complicated, wilful little girl. And I have, against all odds, connected with her.
I have no idea how that happened or what I’m supposed to do next.
“Em,” Leo says, pushing off the wall, his voice returning to its normal timbre. “Go brush your teeth. You still haven’t.”
“But Annie—”
“Now, please.”
She rolls her eyes with a practiced drama, but trudges toward the bathroom. At the door, she turns, her expression solemn once more. “Bye, Annie! I hope your period gets better!”
I wince. Behind me, Leo fails to stifle a snort of laughter. I shoot him a look that I hope conveys exactly how I feel about him right now.
“Thank you!” I call back, because what else am I supposed to say?
She disappears into the bathroom and suddenly it’s just me and Leo standing in this entryway, and the weight of everything that just happened crashes down on me. This is it. This is where he tells me thanks but no thanks, I collect the tattered remnants of my dignity, and leave.
I look around quickly, making sure I’ve got everything—wallet, keys, tokens, the mortifying tampon safely tucked away, camera—and then I start walking toward the front door because I might as well save us both the awkwardness of him having to kick me out.
But before I can reach it, the broad plane of his chest moves in front of the door, blocking my path, and I almost stumble directly into it. Into him.
I stop short, looking up. “What are you doing?”
He points toward an arched doorway off to the left that I’m guessing leads to the living room. “Would you be willing to talk? For a minute?”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if this is some kind of joke, but his face is serious.
Completely serious. Although to be fair, I haven’t actually seen him not serious yet except for when Emma took his picture, so I don’t have much to compare it to.
His brown eyes are studying my face, moving quickly over my features like he’s trying to figure something out, and I take a step back even though I don’t particularly want to because he smells good.
Really good, like cedar and bergamot, which is unsettlingly attractive on a man I’d last seen snarling on a sidewalk.
“Uh,” I manage, eloquent as always. “Sure?”
He jerks his chin toward the living room in a gesture that clearly means follow me, then turns without another word, expecting compliance. I follow, a marionette whose strings have been cut.
The living room is really nice. There’s a large sectional couch in this soft grey fabric that looks like it’s actually comfortable instead of just for show, and across from it is another smaller couch and a matching armchair.
The coffee table is dark wood, solid and substantial, with a few books stacked neatly on one corner and a chunky remote control sitting precisely in the center.
There’s large arched windows that let in the light and a television—one of those bigger box ones that probably weighs a ton—sitting in an entertainment center against the wall, and next to it are shelves filled with books and what look like academic journals.
Everything is neat and orderly and clean, not a toy or stray crayon in sight. You’d never believe a child lived here if you didn’t know better.
It’s the sort of apartment I imagined living in when I thought about moving to New York. The grown-up kind, where everything has a place and nothing is falling apart or stained or held together with duct tape and a bit of optimism.