Chapter 9
ANNIE
I did light makeup—just mascara and some lip gloss—which is more than I wanted to do when I woke up at six-thirty this morning feeling like I’d been hit by a semi-truck.
I barely slept. Every time I started to drift off, I’d jolt awake thinking about all the ways this could go wrong.
Emma locking me in a bathroom. Emma chopping off my hair.
Or a limb. Emma throwing plates at my head while I try to explain that violence isn’t the answer.
Cori and Marcus had tried to calm me down last night when I was pacing the apartment like a caged animal, running through worst-case scenarios out loud until Marcus finally looked up from the painting he was working on and said, “Annie, if the kid kills you, at least you won’t have to worry about the damn rent anymore.
” It was the morbid, grounding absurdity I’d needed.
I knock on the door, three quick raps, and immediately hear the skittering pitter-patter of small feet on the other side.
The door swings open and Emma’s standing there, grinning broadly, her blonde hair a wild mess of curls that suggests no one has brushed it yet this morning. She’s still in her nightgown—blue flannel with little pink flowers on it and lace at the top—and her feet are bare.
“Annie!” she practically shouts, like we’re old friends who haven’t seen each other in years instead of two people who met once for fifteen minutes. “You came back! Dad said you would but I wasn’t sure because the other ladies always said they’d come back and then they didn’t.”
The simple statement is a heart-wrenching archive of small betrayals. “Well, I’m here,” I say, my smile feeling more genuine. “I promised I’d bring those pictures, remember?”
Her eyes, that shocking cerulean, widen. “Yes! Are they ready? Can I see?”
“Not until next weekend. But…” I hold up the small plastic bag I’ve been clutching like a lifeline. “I brought you your very own. A camera. For you to use.”
The transformation is instantaneous. Reverence softens her features as she takes the bag, peering inside at the humble Kodak FunSaver like it’s the Holy Grail. “For me?”
“For you. So you can take your own pictures.”
“Come on!” Her small, warm hand seizes mine, tugging me inside with surprising force. “You have to see my room! I have so many Barbies and Dad says it’s too many but he’s wrong, right? You can never have too many Barbies.”
I let myself be pulled through the pristine entryway. “Where is your dad?”
“Doing boring stuff,” she announces, dismissing the entirety of him with a wave. “He’s always doing boring stuff.”
“I heard that.” The voice, a familiar baritone edged with morning gravel, comes from down the hall.
Leo’s in pleated khakis and a burgundy button-down with sleeves meticulously rolled to his elbows.
He’s paired them with a brown leather belt, polished shoes, and his dark hair is tamed, swept back from his forehead.
And he’s wearing glasses—wire-rimmed, rectangular frames that somehow sharpen his features, giving him a Clark Kent gravity that is objectively, annoyingly compelling.
He looks competent, put-together, and utterly in control.
A stark contrast to my frizzing hair and internal panic.
“Good morning, Annie.” He steps forward, extending his hand. The gesture is formal, a little distancing.
I take it. His grip is firm, warm, and brief. “Morning.”
“I’ll be here for the first hour,” he states, reaching for a stack of papers on the coffee table. “Grading before my seminar. I wanted to give you this.”
He hands me a stapled document. I glance down. It’s four pages long. Single-spaced. Section headers. Bullet points. A table of contents.
I look up at him, then back down at the papers, then back up at him.
“Is this—” I start, but he’s already talking.
“It’s everything you need to know about Emma’s routine, her preferences, emergency protocols, behavioral strategies that have worked in the past—”
“Is this…normal?” I interrupt, incredulous.
He blinks at me. “Is what normal?”
I hold up the pages. “This! A dissertation on childcare?”
He frowns slightly, and I hate that he looks good even when he’s frowning, like he’s pouting almost. Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be hot. But also he doesn’t like me very much, which snaps me firmly back to reality.
“It’s all crucial information,” he says, a little defensive now. “Emma has specific needs and routines that are important to maintain for her emotional stability—”
I look down at the first page and read out loud. “‘Emma prefers her sandwiches cut diagonally rather than straight across. Straight cuts may result in refusal to eat.’”
“That’s accurate,” he says.
“‘Juice should be diluted with water at a 60/40 ratio. Too much juice can lead to hyperactivity.’” I look up at him. “Sixty-forty? You measured?”
“I did the research on optimal juice-to-water ratios for children her age—”
“‘When reading books, Emma likes to point at pictures and name objects. Encourage this behavior but do not force it if she’s not in the mood.’” I flip to the second page.
“‘Emma’s emotional regulation tends to decline around 3 PM. This is normal and should not be interpreted as a reflection of your caregiving abilities.’”
He runs his hand through his hair, undoing its neat order. “These are all important details that will help you—”
But I’m already walking toward the kitchen, scanning the fridge as I go.
Sure enough, there’s a laminated list of emergency contacts stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet—his office number, his cell number, his parents at the restaurant, his sister Maria, the pediatrician, the nearest hospital, poison control.
And on the wall beside the fridge is a calendar with Emma’s entire schedule color-coded by activity type.
I turn back to Leo and very deliberately rip the four pages in half.
He stares at me, his mouth actually falling open slightly.
I rip them again and again, until I hold a handful of paper confetti.
Emma giggles from where she’s sitting on the couch, her legs swinging. “That was so cool.”
Leo looks at her, his expression pained, and she just shrugs.
“I put a lot of time into typing those up,” he says, and there’s something almost hurt in his voice now, which makes me feel a little bad but not bad enough to take it back.
“I know you did,” I say, setting the shredded paper on the kitchen counter. “And I appreciate that you care enough about Emma to write all of that down. But Leo, these pages aren’t for me. They’re for you.”
His eyebrows draw together. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re trying to control something you can’t control,” I say, and I’m trying to be gentle about this but also honest because someone needs to say it.
“You can’t be here with her. You have to go to work.
And that’s scary, especially after everything that’s happened with the other nannies.
So you made this—” I gesture to the paper scraps “—because it makes you feel like you still have some control over what happens while you’re gone.
Like if you just give me enough instructions, everything will go exactly the way you want it to. ”
He’s very quiet, just standing there in his professor clothes with his hands in his pockets, and I can see him working through what I just said, trying to decide if I’m right or if he should be offended.
“Leo,” I continue. “I can’t follow a script.
Kids don’t work that way. Emma’s going to have a bad day sometimes at three in the afternoon and sometimes at ten in the morning and sometimes not at all.
She’s going to want her sandwich cut straight across one day even though she wanted it diagonal yesterday.
She’s going to surprise me and I’m going to mess up and we’re going to figure it out together as we go. That’s what this job is.”
Leo’s jaw tightens, and I can tell he knows I’m right but doesn’t want to admit it.
“The emergency contacts are on the fridge,” I say, pointing.
“The calendar is on the wall. That’s all I need.
The rest of it—Emma’s going to tell me what she needs.
And if she can’t tell me, I’ll figure it out.
But I can’t do this job if you’re hovering over my shoulder or if I’m worried about following your playbook perfectly instead of actually paying attention to her. ”
There’s a long silence. Emma watches us, an enthralled audience of one.
“Fine.” The word is a concession, heavy with reluctant surrender. He sounds exhausted. “You’re right. I just…I really need this to work, Annie.”
“I know.” And I do. The need is etched into the lines around his eyes, the tense set of his shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay. But you have to let me do it my way.”
He gives a single, sharp nod. Then he retreats to the armchair, collects his stack of papers and red pen, and pointedly looks down, a man physically granting space while mentally holding his breath.
I turn to Emma. She’s grinning at me with unabashed hero-worship.
“So,” I say, sitting down on the couch next to her. “What should we do first?”
She taps her chin theatrically. “Breakfast!” she announces. “I’m starving. My tummy is making the grumblies.”
I bite back a smile. “Breakfast it is, then. Shall we?”
She giggles and slides off the couch, and I follow her into the kitchen.
The morning sunlight is coming through the window above the sink, making everything look warm and golden, and for a second I let myself feel optimistic about this.
I can do this. It’s just breakfast. People make breakfast every day.
“What do you normally have?” I ask, opening one of the cabinets to get a sense of where things are.
“Scrambled eggs and toast,” Emma says, hopping up to sit on one of the kitchen chairs, swinging her legs. “And Dad always makes me eat a fruit, too. Like a banana or strawberries or cantaloupe even though I hate cantaloupe.”
I lean in conspiratorially, lowering my voice. “I hate cantaloupe too.”