Chapter 6
SIX
SHANE
“So…you really didn’t get in any trouble for this?” I tape Summer’s latest masterpiece up onto the side of the fridge, above Lucky’s painting of my red board shorts.
“No. Why?”
“No reason. And your teacher didn’t say she wanted to talk to me?”
“No. Why? I did what I was s’posed to.”
“You did, baby. You really did. It’s beautiful.
Yours too, Lucky. These are really, really good.
I’m proud of you.” Summer did a really good job painting a big red pen and writing out the words MY PEN IS BIGER THAN YORS.
“Really, really proud.” I toss their empty juice boxes into the recycling bin and put their snack dishes in the sink.
“What are those flowers doing here?” Summer stares at the flowers that I put in a pitcher in the middle of the kitchen table.
“They make the kitchen more homey, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. What’s homey mean?”
“A place where you feel good and comfortable.”
“Why do they smell like that?”
“I’m not sure, buddy. To attract bees, maybe?” Why the fuck don’t I know anything? “Hey, Lucky, do me a favor and find my iPad. I think it’s in the living room. We gotta Skype with your mom before she goes to bed.”
“Why does she have to go to bed so early?” Lucky asks.
“It’s not early where she is, remember?”
“But why is it different for her?”
I bet Willa can explain time zones to a five-year-old. “That’s a really good question, buddy. There’s these things called ‘time zones,’ and we’ll have to look them up later. Summer—brush your teeth.”
“Why?”
“Because you didn’t brush them this morning.”
“But I’ll have to brush them again before bed!”
“Get to the bathroom now. We can’t Skype your mom until you have clean teeth.”
She makes a cartoony harrumph sound, and I follow her as she stomps to the guest bathroom. “I. Will. Only. Brush. My. Teeth. If. You. Sing to meeeeee!”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Yes! From a musical!”
“Nope.”
I squeeze some toothpaste onto a little pink toothbrush and hold it out to her after she stands up on the step stool, but she just crosses her arms in front of her chest and shakes her head.
“Brush your teeth.”
“Sing to me!”
“Ask me to do anything else—I don’t like to sing.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not. I’m not good at it.”
“Why not?”
“Because nobody’s perfect. I can’t be a good comedy actor, have great hair, a six-pack, and sing and dance. I’m not Zac Efron.”
“Can Uncle Zac come over?”
“No. Brush your teeth, or I will brush them for you.”
Her lips disappear inside her stubborn, adorable face. She looks like an angry Muppet.
“Summer. We all have to brush our teeth at least twice a day. Come on.”
She shakes her head slowly, maintaining eye contact with me, reminding me who’s boss.
I am so fucking proud of her for knowing what she wants and being so strong-willed, but I also want to rip this sink from the wall.
I open up her hand and place the toothbrush in it. “I…”
Her face lights up, and she lifts the toothbrush to her mouth, which is still closed.
“I am the very model of a modern Major General.”
She smiles, and I maneuver the toothbrush so it’s touching her teeth.
I can memorize all of my dialogue after reading a script twice, but I only know the first couple of lines to every song I’ve ever heard.
Singing breaks my brain, but I swear, Margo can tell if someone hasn’t brushed their teeth from six thousand miles away and I’ll be damned if I’m going to look like a totally incompetent father today. Fuck you, Pirates of Penzance.
“I’ve information vegetable, animal, and mineral.”
She starts moving the toothbrush up and down.
“Keep brushing Summer Miller or you’re gonna be in big trouble. If not your teeth will all fall out and it will look just terrible. Go up and down and front and back and don’t forget the bottom ones. La-la-la-lah-bah-puh-buh-bah!”
“Enough!” she orders, shaking her head like a tiny Simon Cowell with a mouth full of foam. “Stop!”
“What? You don’t like that song?”
She spits into the sink and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “I don’t like your voice on that one.”
“You’ve heard me sing before, so why do you keep making me do it?”
“I thought you’d get better!”
I fill a little cup with water and hand it to her. “Such an optimist. Rinse.”
“Found the iPad!” Lucky calls out from the hallway, sounding like he’s been searching for hours.
“Thanks, buddy. Wipe your mouth with the towel, not the back of your hand,” I say to Summer as I walk out of the bathroom.
“Abby’s dad can sing!”
“Yeah, but Abby’s dad can’t act and he isn’t funny. Trust me. I’ve seen him on Saturday Night Live.” I take the iPad from Lucky. “Actually, you know what, I have to have a little chat with your mom first. Why don’t you guys wait for me in the family room.”
“Can we watch—”
“No!”
“Mean!” Summer stomps down the hall to the family room.
“Ohhhh no! You gotta sit in the family room for two minutes without watching TV! Your life is so hard!”
I initiate a Skype call with Margo as I carry the iPad back into the kitchen, sliding the door shut.
The video window opens up after two rings. “Finally. I can barely stay awake.”
“Welcome to my world.”
“Where are they?”
“In the family room. Just listen. I’ve found a nanny.”
She purses her lips, just like Summer did.
“Nico’s sister is staying with him. She just came back from France, where she was a nanny to two French kids while she was getting her master’s degree in…perfume design or something. She’s a perfumer. Her name’s Willa.”
“I forgot Nico had a sister.”
“So did I. But she’s here. I just met up with them this afternoon. She’s twenty-four, super nerdy and responsible and down-to-earth. She’s into natural stuff and aromatherapy, and she’s about to open up an Etsy store and she wants to make perfume for a living. She’s trained for it.”
I know my ex-wife so well—I can literally read her thoughts as she processes this information.
Gwyneth.
Goop.
Margo.
Signature scent.
Margo.
Synergy!
Marketing campaign.
Next level.
Margo Margo Margo.
“She sounds interesting. Let’s set up a time for me to Skype her. Wait—I’ll Skype Nico. I don’t want her to have my information in case it doesn’t work out. Make sure they’re together. Can we do it tomorrow?”
“I could literally be dead from lack of sleep tomorrow, but sure.”
“I’m quite sure that’s not physically possible.”
“It definitely feels possible.”
“Well, she’ll have to sign our nondisclosure agreement. What about her salary?”
“Oh shit. We didn’t discuss that.”
“Well, what did you discuss?”
She read my palm. She told me she used to have a crush on me. She alluded to dating a lot of European men. “Her excellent driving record, her fluency in French, her preference for kids over adults. You’ll like her. She’s a good vibes person.”
I would never say the words “good vibes person” out loud to anyone but Margo, and only when it involves getting Willa Todd to be my kids’ nanny.
She studies my face for a few seconds. “Okay. Well, I hope it works out. Did you talk to the kids about it yet?”
“No, I wanted to talk to you about it first.”
She smiles at that. “Okay. Take me to them. I need to see them, but I have to go to sleep.”
I take the iPad to the kids in the family room, tell Lucky that his mom’s going to explain time zones to him, and while they’re talking, I go back to the kitchen to text Willa.
When she programmed her information in my phone, she put it under Willow SweetPeaNotUrine Todd. I change it to Willa Todd before typing out: Yo.
Shit. Why’d I send that? Why am I texting like a creepy old dude?
WILLA: Hey. Why are you texting me like a creepy old dude?
ME: I hit send before finishing the sentence… YOU are the lucky winner of a Skype call with Margo Quincey. She’s excited to meet you. We’ll set up a call for you and her on Nico’s phone tomorrow. That okay?
Good save, Miller. Good save.
WILLA: Word!
ME: Why are you texting like a boring dork who’s trying to sound cool? Oh wait, never mind.
WILLA: Booyah.
ME: I really hope some of your ’80’s hip-hop awesomeness rubs off on my kids.
WILLA: Fo’ shizzle.
WILLA: I hope some of me rubs off on you too.
What?
Shit, is that flirting? Is she flirting? Now I can’t stop picturing her rubbing off on me.
Fuck, this is a bad idea.
WILLA: Um. It just occurred to me that you might have read that the wrong way.
WILLA: To be clear, I have no intention of rubbing off on you. Ever.
WILLA: Or on anyone else, for that matter.
WILLA: Do people even call it that here anymore? In France there’s a term for jerking off that literally means ‘to wobble oneself.’ Like you’re walking a tightrope and wobbling from side to side? Which always made me wonder if the French are wanking themselves off properly.
WILLA: I’m going to put my phone away now. Thanks for the job opportunity, sir. Byyye!
Fuck. She’s adorable.
This chemistry between us is a living thing that I can’t seem to control or predict. New and energetic and wobbly like a toddler. Or like a single dad who’s walking a tightrope and wobbling from side to side.
Yeah. This is a bad idea.