15. Gabby
Gabby
I sit in the small living room off the foyer. I’m judging. I don’t mean to, but I am. The woman is in her mid-forties, wearing no makeup, and with her hair pulled back into an aggressively tight bun. She’s not ugly, but there’s zero warmth.
I hold my notepad and list of questions, feeling like a fraud.
Her name is Diane. She has twelve years of experience. She’s worked with children with sensory processing challenges. She has CPR certification, a clean background check, and references from three families in Summerlin.
She costs forty-two dollars an hour.
I write it down on my notepad, so I have something to do with my hand.
Forty-two dollars. Per hour. For a forty-hour week, that’s more than sixteen hundred dollars. Per week.
I smile and ask her about her approach to routine.
I feel terrible wasting her time, but Nikolai set this up. I don’t want him to think I’m ungrateful.
I thank her and tell her I’ll be in touch.
I won’t be in touch.
The second nanny arrives, and I repeat the process. This one is a hard no. She’s young and gorgeous. And for some silly reason, that bothers me. I have zero reason to be jealous. Nikolai and I are nothing. He works in a casino surrounded by gorgeous women.
She’s cheaper, but still way out of my budget. I understand why Nikolai thought a nanny service was the best option. In a perfect world, it would be. But he doesn’t understand that I don’t live in his world. Sitters like Carla are what I can afford.
I have another interview in an hour. I don’t want to keep going through the motions.
I look out the window.
Outside, through the glass, I see Galina moving across the back garden.
Luke is two steps ahead of her, his dinosaur backpack on even though we’re not going anywhere.
He does that. He wears it around the house sometimes because it has his things in it.
Being in a new place, he likes having his things close. It helps him manage his world.
He stops at the edge of the pool area. The gate is closed. I checked it three times this morning before the first nanny arrived. There’s a latch on it, but my mom brain spins a million scenarios about how it could come unlatched.
Galina stops beside him. They stand there together, looking at the water. I watch Luke point at something in the pool. His head has that tilt to it that means he’s thinking hard.
She says something to him, and Luke looks at her.
He’s listening to her. I have the briefest thought and then feel a little bad.
Maybe Galina understands how to talk to Luke because she works for Nikolai.
He has some of the same traits Luke does.
I’ve noticed them. He’s quiet. Observant. Intelligent.
It gives me hope for my son. Nikolai has built an empire.
His differences didn’t hold him back in any way.
If anything, they work for him. They helped make him successful.
Maybe he could teach Luke how to use those differences instead of fighting them.
I don’t know if I’ll be able to do that for my son.
I watch Galina walk the perimeter of the pool with him.
I hope she’s telling him to stay out. He needs swim lessons.
We’ve never lived anywhere with a pool. He cannot swim, and now, he’s living in a house with a pool.
Even with the gate locked, the gate is only as reliable as the last person who closed it.
I finish my last interview and go to find Galina and Luke. I've loved having this extra time with him that I never had before.
Nikolai comes home at nine, earlier than I expected. He’d been out late the night before, and I’d assumed tonight would be the same. So, I put Luke to bed and snuck downstairs for a snack, thinking I had the kitchen to myself.
I’m caught red-handed by the man of the house.
“I was just going to make a sandwich,” I blurt out.
“Okay.”
“Can I make you one?”
He considers the question. “Please.”
I pull out the meat, cheese, and condiments, grateful to be making something other than peanut butter and jelly. After stretching one jar across more meals than I care to count, this feels decadent.
He pulls a liquor bottle from a cabinet and pours himself a drink. He holds the bottle up to me in question.
Absolutely not. Terrible idea.
“Please,” I reply.
I don’t want to be rude. I’ve never had a decent scotch. I’m not sure I’ve ever even had scotch.
“Did the agency send nannies?”
“They did. I interviewed three.”
“And?”
“They were very good.”
He takes a sip and sets the other glass in front of me. “But.”
I layer meat onto his sandwich. “But I can’t afford them.”
He’s quiet. “I’ll cover it.”
“No.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“No.” I keep my voice even. “I appreciate it. I really do. But I’m not going to let you pay for my son’s childcare.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not something you do for someone you barely know. That’s not a casual thing.”
“I pay for things for a hundred people whose faces I couldn’t place. The valet. The kitchen staff at the casino. Most of the cleaning crew.”
“That’s different, and you know it.”
“How?”
“They work for you. They earn it. I haven’t earned anything.
I’m living in your house, eating your food, and using your staff, and now you want to add a nanny to that list. At some point, the weight of what I owe you becomes too much.
” Without thinking, I cut his sandwich in half.
Two triangles, because that’s the only way Luke will eat one.
“I’ve been taken care of before. There is always a price. ”
I put his sandwich on a plate and hand it to him. “This isn’t a transaction,” he says.
“But it’s a debt.”
“Then call it a gift,” he says.
I almost laugh. “You don’t give people nannies as gifts.”
“Be reasonable.”
“I am being reasonable.”
“You’re being stubborn, Miss Collins.”
“Please, call me Gabby.”
He gestures for me to sit down at the long center island. I take my sandwich and drink and sit down. He sits, leaving one stool between us.
“What are your options?” he asks.
The silence stretches.
“There are shelters,” I say softly.
“Shelters are for those who don’t have options. You have an option.”
“I could call a friend,” I whisper.
“Who?”
I hate that he’s right. I hate it in my bones. I bargain with myself. If I stay two weeks, I’ll get another paycheck, assuming I still have a job. I don’t know if he would fire me. He said I have a week off.
A month tops. Two paychecks. Enough for a deposit and first month’s rent.
“I need to teach him to swim,” I say.
“There’s a fence. And a gate.”
“And one time it’s left open. One time he figures it out.”
I take a sip of the scotch and try not to make a face. It’s smoother than I expected. I'm used to whatever came in a plastic handle when I could afford it at all.
“Tell me about him,” Nikolai says.
I look up. He takes a sip, his eyes locked on mine. He’s not asking in a prying way. Not in the way people ask about Luke because they’re curious or uncomfortable or want to offer unsolicited opinions about screen time and sugar intake. He asks like he wants the answer.
I set down my sandwich. “What do you want to know?”
“What does he need? What are the rules?”
I smile. Nobody asks about the rules. People assume they know, or think I’m being overprotective, or get offended when I explain. Nobody just asks.
“Routine,” I say. “That’s the biggest one.
Same order, every day. If something changes, I tell him before it happens.
Not right before.” I pick at my sandwich.
“He doesn’t do well with surprises. Sometimes it’s fine; sometimes it’s not.
I haven’t quite figured out why. I’m not sure he knows, either. "
He nods.
“Loud, sudden noises are hard for him. He’ll manage, but it costs him.
He needs quiet time after. He likes small spaces when he’s overwhelmed.
His blanket helps. But he doesn’t want to be touched when he’s overwhelmed.
Don’t try to pull him out of it. Just let him know you’re there if he needs you. ”
He almost looks surprised. “I know.”
“He doesn’t make eye contact when he’s processing something big. That doesn’t mean he’s not listening. He hears everything.” I smile. “Everything. So, please watch what you say around him.”
He nods again.
Oddly enough, I think he does know.
“He loves all things dinosaurs. He knows facts most people don’t. He likes SpongeBob. Chicken nuggets.” I pause and look him in the eyes. “And apparently, he loves ketchup and mayo mixed together.”
I see the slightest reaction. It almost looks like pride. “It’s good,” he says.
“It is. We’re still learning what he does and doesn’t like. It’s never a straight line. Last year, he loved mac and cheese. And then one day, he didn’t. Won’t touch the stuff anymore.”
“The guns,” he says.
My stomach drops. Luke in this house. This beautiful, enormous house full of God knows how many weapons tucked into God knows how many places.
I know what he is. And I’ve lived in houses like this.
I know they are not what they appear to be.
And there’s a reason for it. A reason I don’t want to think about.
“How many?” I ask quietly.
“Enough.”
“Nikolai, he’s a curious boy.”
“I’ll speak with my security team tomorrow. We’ll move them. Consolidate.” He takes a slow sip. “I can’t remove them entirely. I won’t.”
“I know.” And I do. I understand it better than he probably expects me to. I grew up in a world where men slept with guns under their pillows. Where the sound of a safety clicking off was as familiar as a door closing. I’ve hated guns my entire life. “I know you can’t. I’m not asking you to.”
He looks at me. I think he expected a fight.
“I’m asking you to put them somewhere a four-year-old can’t access them,” I say. “High up. Locked, if possible. And I need to know where they are. Not so I can move them. So I know where they are.”
He nods.
“I’ll talk to Luke,” I say. “About what to do if he ever finds one.”
“I’ll do it.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“I’ll talk to him.” He sets down his glass. “Man to man.”
I’m aware that I’m staring, and I can’t seem to stop. “He’s four and a half.”
“I’m aware.”
“He doesn’t talk to people.”
“He talks to me.”
He says it without arrogance. And the infuriating thing is that he’s right. My son said goodbye to this man shortly after they met, and ate cereal next to him this morning. Two of a kind. Like attracts like.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Okay, you can talk to him, but please, don’t let him mess with them.”
“I grew up in a house with guns,” he says. “I know.”
Nikolai most likely had the childhood I wanted to shield Luke from. And I’m right back in it.
“There’s something else,” I say.
He waits.
“I am trying to get Luke in to see a doctor that specializes in kids who might be neurodivergent.”
“Makes sense. Why are you trying? Why not just do it?”
I smile. To him, it really is that simple. “There are waitlists. Every state has different criteria. I just got health insurance through the casino. I’ve been trying to get him evaluated for almost two years. I’ve never been in one place long enough to get through the process.”
He says nothing, and once I start, I can’t seem to stop.
“There’s a school here. Real resources for kids like him.
” I look at my hands. “We’re on the waitlist. I don’t know how long it’ll take.
And even if he gets in, I need the evaluation first because they’ll want documentation, and I don’t have any, because every time I get close, we…
” The words dry up. “We’ve had to move a lot. ”
He finishes half of his sandwich.
“I’ll make a call,” Nikolai says.
I look up. “What kind of call?”
“The kind that moves things.”
“I don’t want him jumping a waitlist because of who you are. Other families are waiting, too. Families who need the services just as much as we do.”
“I’m not going to pull a child off a list,” he says. “I’ll call someone who can tell me which list he should be on. Get him seen faster by the right person.” He picks up his drink. “There’s a difference.”
I want to tell him I can handle it, but I don’t. I will beg, borrow, and steal for Luke. If that means taking advantage of his generosity, I’ll do it.
“Why?” I ask. “Why are you being so kind to us?”
“Because I can,” he says.
“That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.” He drinks his scotch. “You needed somewhere safe. The boy needed somewhere safe. I have somewhere safe.” He pauses. “It’s not complicated.”
“It feels complicated.”
“That’s because you’re expecting demands.”
“I hate this,” I admit. “Taking help. I hate it.”
“You don’t know me, but I think you understand who I am. Just like I know you’re not who you say you are.”
I flinch. He holds my gaze. “I don’t care,” he says. “You’re hiding, and as long as you don’t come after me and mine, you’re safe here.”
He knows. That’s bad. Worse, it’s dangerous. But he’s not lying to me. He’s not threatening me. He’s protecting me.
I slide off the stool, pick up my plate, and carry it to the sink to rinse it.
When I turn around, he’s watching me.
“I’m not a criminal,” I whisper.
His lips twitch, and I think I might get an actual smile, but then it’s gone. He picks up his glass, drains it, and leaves it on the island. “I am.”
And then he walks out of the kitchen.
I stand there, trying to decide if his honesty makes him safer or more dangerous. He’s not hiding who he is. I’m not asking questions. He’s not asking questions.
I press my hand against my stomach, waiting for my instinct to tell me if I’m making the second biggest mistake of my life.
It doesn’t feel like a Matteo situation. I knew from the second I laid eyes on Matteo that he would hurt me.
Nikolai won’t. That’s what my instinct is telling me.