11. Tessa
Tessa
My eyes trail over the artwork on the otherwise white wall, which varies from crayon drawings by five-year-olds to professional paintings that only look like they were created by five-year-olds.
Art can be funny that way—meticulous to some yet meaningless to others.
I guess people are like that too. What one person sees in someone might be completely different from what someone else notices.
Like Liam. All I've heard is that he's this energetic personality with positivity radiating off of him and optimism spewing from his pores.
People have said he's steady, good-natured—the kind of light-hearted friend that’s easy to be around.
But all I've gotten are flashes of that version of him—a joke here, a kind gesture there.
The rest is a mess of creased brows, heavy sighs, conversations cut too short, and the occasional moments so heavy I feel like I could fall right into them.
Like just last night. When he said Trevor was right, and I thought he meant about him liking me, I just about sank into the porch beneath my feet. The intensity in his stare and the tone of his voice—there is no way that is the same Liam that Brooke described as a real life Ted Lasso.
"You'll have to keep me posted on that corner kick, okay? I'll see you next week." A sweet voice floats into the waiting room of Art, Mind, and Soul and reminds me of what I'm about to walk into—or who's about to walk into me.
Ruthie comes into view, and I hold tighter to the purse strap across my chest as if it will somehow shield me from a moment I've been both dreading and excited for.
In perfect timing, a petite redhead with porcelain skin and adorable freckles enters the room behind Ruthie, and anxiety floods my system.
This is her. This is the last nanny Liam had that he could stand. No… that he adored. That he undoubtedly compared every candidate to these last few weeks. That he's comparing me to.
I find myself digesting every inch of her as fast as possible.
Her long, wavy, strawberry locks, her bright green eyes, her flowing skirt and knee-high boots.
She's gorgeous, but not in a made-up modelesque type of way.
More like the natural, woke up, ran a brush through her hair, and rolled in here to save preteens mental health sort of way.
Shit. I never stood a chance.
"Hey, how was it?" I ask, forcing myself to turn toward them completely. I twist away from the piece on the wall that I'm pretty positive is a hand turkey, but could technically be a Picasso.
"Good," Ruthie says simply, offering me a genuine smile but no real details.
Come on, girl. Help me out.
The redhead comes up beside her, not much taller than Ruthie, and extends her hand graciously. "You must be Tessa."
My palms clam instantly as I consider everything Ruthie—or worse, Liam—may have said about me to their former nanny, now art therapist. "And you're Nellie, right?"
She nods and grins sweetly. "I am. You're so lucky you get to hang with the Montgomerys all day." She nudges Ruthie's elbow, her genuine laugh filling the room. "I miss it so much."
I ignore the beautiful sound—and the additional reminder of how great she clearly is—and attempt to dissect any hidden meaning in her statement. I then follow that up with a quick mental investigation of why I would even care if there was.
"I, uh, yeah. I feel pretty lucky," I stutter, meaning it whole-heartedly despite my shallow voice.
A slightly awkward silence falls between us as Ruthie chooses a lollipop from the basket at the front desk and I wonder how bad it would be to throw out a few questions to Nellie about her former employer.
For research.
And strategy.
"Alright, well, I'll see you next week, Ruthie. Tessa, it was great to meet you." Nellie waves at us both, and I lose my opportunity as she turns back toward where she came from.
Dammit.
"You too," I call back once she's halfway down the hall. I glance over to find Ruthie with one pink sucker in her mouth, and another held out toward me.
"You look like you need some sugar."
I throw my damp palm to my cheek. "Oh, I'm fine."
My heart rate still hammers in my chest as she shrugs casually, and before she can pull the lollipop away, I reach for it. "Thank you."
"It happens to me sometimes if I don't finish dinner before practice and Coach makes us run extra laps."
I smile faintly, unwrapping the candy and shoving it into my mouth before I have to explain to Ruthie that I'm pale and unfocused because I'm still mentally comparing myself to Nellie and not because I'm hypoglycemic.
Nellie's clearly great—a fan favorite—but so am I. Usually. It's not like I'm jealous of her. I'm glad Ruthie had someone so great before me. But I'm great too. And the fact that Liam is so hesitant to see that despite giving me the job stirs a frustration in me I can't quite explain.
"Hey, I parked behind Drippy's," I say, changing subjects before I waltz into Nellie's room and ask for a session myself. "You know what has tons of sugar?"
"Cinnamon rolls?" she asks eagerly and without hesitation.
I nod.
Ruthie shrieks, darting for the exit. "You're the best!" she yells as she reaches the door.
I laugh, and that quick, my levels are suddenly back to normal.
I am the best, aren't I? Just like Nellie.
Take that, Liam.
"It's so good." Ruthie slumps in her seat, her mouth full of flaky cinnamon-swirled dough and gooey homemade frosting.
Taking a sip of my macchiato, I wash down my last bite. "I could eat these things for every meal."
She sticks a finger in her mouth and licks it clean. "Ooh, I'm so asking Dad to get these for my birthday party."
My ears perk up. "Wait, when's your birthday party?"
"Next weekend." She sits forward and leans her forearms on the table, her face brighter than ever. "It's a sleepover."
"A sleepover?" I echo. "That's so cool."
"It's my first one."
Now I sit forward eagerly. As someone who never had their own room growing up, I can't even imagine. "Seriously? Oh, this is gonna be great. Who all is coming?"
"I invited the six other girls from my soccer team—no boys. Dad said they haven't all RSVP'd yet, but that's probably because I just gave out the invitations last week."
"You guys will have the best time," I say, sipping again from my coffee.
"I can't wait. I already checked the streaming apps and made a list of the best movies. Dad vetoed like half of them, of course, but there's still some good ones left. Plus, he said he'd get all my favorite snacks and let us stay up as late as we wanted as long as we weren't being too crazy."
"Sounds like a great dad," I say, smiling—meaning it.
And he does—he is. He's the Dad who loves his daughter so much that he'll fill his house with preteen girls hopped up on sugar and gossip just to make her birthday special. The guy full of a steady warmth everyone keeps talking about. The guy I wish I got for more than just brief blips of time.
"He is," she says with a smile as she shoves another bite of her cinnamon roll into her mouth. "But he's also been kind of a grouch these past few weeks."
Now she has my attention. "Why do you say that?"
She shrugs. "He's just grumpy about the most random things. I think it's because of everything that's been going on with the nanny stuff, no offense."
I shake my head, mentally thanking her. So, it's not just me. "None taken. I'm not like those other ones," I say, winking.
"I know." She grins and it melts my heart. "I can tell."
I smile back. "Well, hopefully he can too."
She nods and sips her water. "How'd you spend your last birthday?"
I pause, my macchiato halfway to my lips, admittedly a bit thrown by the change-up. "Umm…" I lower my cup and try to remember. "Oh, I was with my sister."
"That sounds nice. What'd you do?"
"We, uh…" I search for an appropriate way to say egged her ex's Honda. "Had a food fight."
Ruthie's eyes grow wide. "What? No way! I wonder if Dad would—"
"Eh, maybe we stick with the movies."
She sips again from her straw. "Yeah, you're probably right."
I chuckle, but my mind drifts back to spending my thirtieth birthday seeking revenge on Jo's degenerate ex-boyfriend.
I don't even remember his name anymore. They were probably only together for about a month or so, but after three margaritas she would not let the egging idea go until we made it happen.
It wasn't exactly how I wanted to spend my night—it definitely wasn't how I wanted to spend my birthday.
But I guess Grayson or Nelson or Jackson—somebody's son—had it coming.
The guy was DMing some girl on Instagram and thought Jo wouldn't find out—a cheater and an idiot.
If there's one thing about Jo… she always finds out.
And she blasts that shit all over the internet.
"I wish I had sisters," Ruthie adds. Her face scrunches slightly. "I'd even take a brother."
I smile, thinking about my own siblings and wondering what life would be like without them.
I guess in some ways it'd be simpler. I would have had all of my parents' attention to myself, and I wouldn't have had to share toys or snacks, let alone a bedroom.
I definitely wouldn't feel like a doctor on call every time my phone buzzes—hoping it's just a friend or sibling wanting to chat and not someone needing me to do something or be somewhere or make some sort of decision that could easily be figured out by the adult that's asking.
But I'd also be lost.
I'm sure it's different when you don't know any better, but having brothers and sisters is all that I know.
I wasn't even in school yet when Owen was born.
Then shortly after that came Jo, then Margot, then Grant was here before I started high school.
I was helping to take care of them before I learned to tie my shoes—willingly at first, mothering them like I was playing house.
But now, that's just my role. The running joke is What Would Tessa Do?
But sometimes I wonder what they would do without me?
What we would do without each other.
Ruthie waits for me to respond, but although I'm grateful she switched gears before asking what kind of ammo we used, I'm also unsure of how to reply without it looking like I'm prying. "Maybe one day," I settle on, smiling hopefully.
"I doubt it." She takes another bite of her cinnamon roll, and I wait patiently for her to explain. "Dad doesn't even date."
A heat prickles at the back of my neck that I tell myself is because we're entering inappropriate nanny-child conversation territory. I bring my cup to my mouth, letting the creamy liquid slip through my lips as I buy time to respond. Thankfully, Ruthie continues instead.
"He's always saying I'm the only girl he needs, but I keep telling him that soon I'm going to be busy with all my friends doing teenager stuff and he'll be retired, just sitting around waiting for me to come home."
I smother the laugh that almost escapes as I try to picture any professional athlete, let alone Liam Montgomery, just sitting around eating BonBons and sinking into the couch after retirement.
"Maybe he'll pick up a new hobby," I offer, laughing again when I imagine Liam's giant frame hunched over a ball of yarn and knitting needles.
Why I immediately pictured him frowning while he hand-crafts a scarf, I'll never know. But I'm grateful for the mental image.
"Maybe," she says lightly, her lips around her straw. "But I still think he'd be less lonely if he had a girlfriend."
For whatever reason, I hold onto the image of Liam knitting rather than attempt to picture him with a woman on his arm. I slam back the rest of my coffee as the conversation naturally dies out, and before Ruthie can start it up again, I end it completely.
"What do you think?" I ask, my empty cup rattling against the table as I set it down. "You ready to head home?"
"Yeah," she says, wiping her mouth. "Hey, can we bring one of these home for Dad? He loves them."
"Sure," I answer, pretending that isn't the sweetest thing I've ever heard.
She grins. "Maybe it'll make him less grumpy."
We both stand, and I peer down at her, impressed. "Well, in that case," I say, pushing in my chair. "We better get two."