6. Riley
“Ooh—what about this?”
Olivia turns to face me, holding up a silky, low-cut black top. I sigh wistfully, crossing the boutique floor to take the fabric into my hands, feeling its softness.
“That would look so good on you,” I tell her truthfully.
“Right? But check this out—” She runs her fingers along the hem of the shirt until she finds the price tag, holding it out to show me.
I make a false gagging noise in response. That’s part of the ritual, after all.
Sometimes, when we’ve set aside time to hang out, Olivia and I will move from lunch to a pastime that we, for want of a better term, call “shopping.” That is, we go from store to store on Fifth Avenue, looking at designer clothes that neither of us will ever be able to afford.
It’s fun, but only because it means the two of us are spending time together. In several other ways, it’s horribly depressing.
“What have you found?” Olivia asks me.
I reach into the basket I’m carrying—completely pointless, of course, but there’s always the chance we might decide to stay and try some of these outfits on. “What do you think of this?”
It’s a little cashmere cardigan, light brown, hand-stitched—perfect for fall days in the city. Olivia sighs longingly when she sees it.
“Oh, that’s so nice.”
“It’s soft, too,” I say, holding it out to her. “Touch it.”
She touches it. Her eyes go wide. “Ugh, I need to have disposable income, stat.”
We both laugh at that. That’s one of the great things about these little excursions we make: we manage to turn our low incomes into the foundation of a joke, somehow enjoying our empty pockets as we peruse the shelves.
After all, the point of this trip isn’t to shop. It’s to look at things and wish we could have them.
“You wanna try these on?” Olivia holds the black top up to her torso, raising both eyebrows.
“Let’s do it.”
Olivia and I make our way to the back of the store, where a smiling attendant shows us into fitting rooms.
As we’re changing, Olivia says, “So, you never told me last time—whatever happened with that job interview? The one you were all excited about?”
I frown, halfway out of my shirt. “Oh. Yeah. I forgot about that.”
“Have you heard back yet?”
“Yes,” I grumble. “And it wasn’t exactly good news.”
“They didn’t choose you?”
“Nope.” I sigh, pulling the cardigan over my shoulders. It fits like a glove, of course. I turn around to admire it in the mirror, doing my best to swallow the bitter disappointment that rises in my throat at the reminder of the rejection.
I can hear the scowl in Olivia’s voice when she speaks. “That’s stupid, Riley. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I actually think I might have something else lined up.”
Olivia’s face appears at the top of the divider between our two dressing rooms; she must be standing on the bench. “Oh? Tell me!”
I start to explain my run-in with Cole, and how he showed up at my apartment to offer me the nanny job.
“That’s some luck, huh?” Olivia jumps down from the bench. I hear the swish of her fitting room curtain and step out myself. She looks great in the top, which, it turns out, is cut along one sleeve, so that her arm is visible in triangular sections. The asymmetry works for her.
“You’re telling me,” I say. “I’ve been on the fence about it, though. I’ve never really thought about nannying.”
“Well, what’s he paying?”
I tell her. She gapes, disbelief in her expression.
“You’re joking.”
I shake my head. “Apparently not.”
“You have to take it!” Olivia exclaims, waving her hands. “Are you out of your mind?”
I pick at the sleeve of the cardigan; cute as it is, it’s a little itchy once it’s on, and too warm for the current temperature. “I don’t know.”
“Riley, come on,” Olivia says, exasperated. “Look at us! What are we doing right now?”
“Trying on clothes?”
“What kind of clothes?”
I hesitate, then say, “Clothes we’re not going to buy.”
“Clothes we can’t buy,” she corrects. “Clothes we can’t buy because we can’t afford it.”
“I don’t know what that has to do with this,” I say, uncomfortable. I know, realistically, that I would be out of my mind to turn this job down. Still, I can’t help my hesitation.
“If you took that job, and had that salary, you could actually afford nice shit.” Olivia sighs. “You could get ahead. Pay off your loans.”
She shakes her head, and I feel a flash of guilt, realizing that she must be envious.
To be honest, I don’t even know why I’m so hesitant to take this job. It can’t be worse than my position at the restaurant. I finish all of my shifts bone-tired and smelling like fried food, only to come home to a tiny apartment that I’m barely making rent on.
Olivia is right. If I take this job, I actually have a chance to pull myself forward, past this miserable era of my life.
Just last night, I was lying in the bath bemoaning my dead-end job—and then the solution appeared at my door. So what’s holding me back?
I nod reluctantly. “You know what? You’re right.”
“Honestly, I’m happy for you,” Olivia declares, and I can tell that she really means it. Olivia isn’t the type of person to feed me meaningless platitudes. “This is a great break. I wish I could find a good way out like that.”
I frown at her, sympathetic. “Has work been rough lately?”
That’s an almost rhetorical question; of course it has. Olivia has been struggling at work for a long time. She’s an assistant to a high-powered businessman, and is relatively well paid—but nowhere near well enough to make up for the shit she has to put up with. Her boss is a grade-A, certified asshole.
She can’t quit the job, either. She needs it to support her parents. Her father is a full-time caretaker for her mother, whose health has been failing. They get some government assistance, but not enough to live on, so Olivia can’t afford to lose her steady source of income.
“I’m just waiting for something like this,” Olivia says, laughing. “Some wealthy guy to come along and give me an offer I can’t refuse.”
I laugh along with her, fervently wishing that she had gotten this opportunity instead of me. Olivia wouldn’t hesitate to take it—not like I did.
“So,” she says, deftly changing the subject, “what do you think?” She does a little twirl to show off the shirt, which hugs her petite frame.
“It’s cute,” I say.
She hums in agreement. “I’ll say. I like your cardigan, too.” She flashes me a sly wink. “The kind of thing I’m gonna persuade you to buy after a few months of working for your handsome stranger.”
I glance at my reflection in the three-sided mirror behind me. “I don’t know. It’s not very comfortable.”
“Well, why don’t we get out of here, and head next door?” Olivia suggests. “We’ll find you a more comfortable top to throw on the discard pile.”
“Sounds great,” I say, smiling. We leave our clothes in the return bin, heading back out of the shop. As we step out onto the street, the cold wind hitting our faces, I’ve finally convinced myself fully to accept the job from Cole.
After window shopping for a while longer, Olivia and I say our goodbyes, and I head home. Back in my apartment, I lounge on the couch for a while, staring at Cole’s business card. My fingertips trace the embossed letters. I can’t help but wonder if this is all an elaborate prank; what if I call him and end up on some radio show?
Eventually, I dig my phone out of my pocket, sigh, and type in the number on the card. It rings three times before Cole picks up.
“Cole Sullivan,” he says. It’s a short greeting, almost cold.
“Cole? Er—Mr. Sullivan? I mean… sorry, um, Mr. Sullivan.” I kick myself for the clumsy opening. In my head, I’ve been calling him Cole, but there’s something very official about the business card and the way he answered the phone that reminds me that this is a professional relationship.
“Yes?” I can practically picture his arched eyebrow. He sounds thoroughly unamused.
“This is Riley Winters. You came by my apartment a couple of days ago to offer me a nanny position.”
“I remember. Have you made your decision?” He seems awfully businesslike for a call about something like this—something so familial.
“Yes,” I say. “I’d be thrilled to accept your offer.”
“That’s good to hear.” Despite the stoicism in his voice, I can hear a note of relief, and I think back to his desperate attempts to calm down the crying child. He must have really needed a nanny.
Still, as pleased as he is, I can tell that he’s still somewhat detached.
“We can meet to sign the paperwork as soon as you’re available,” he continues, in his cool, removed way. “Once that’s settled, I will send someone over to help you transport your personal effects to my house.”
At that, my stomach flutters. I’d almost forgotten that I would be a live-in nanny. I look around my small, cramped apartment, trying to quell my sudden burst of anxiety.
As much as I hate it here, I wasn’t expecting to leave so abruptly.
“I’ll have a room prepared for you,” he says, oblivious to my nerves.
I swallow, composing myself. “Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Sullivan.” Mr. Sullivan seems like the way to go. He’s my boss now. I don’t want to seem over-familiar.
“I’ll send you my personal assistant’s number. You can text her with your earliest availability for the documentation.” He pauses, then adds, as if required to by a script, “Welcome aboard.”
The call disconnects, and for a few minutes, I’m left sitting on my couch, staring at the blank wall ahead of me.
This is really happening.
* * *
It’s growingdark outside my apartment’s dingy windows as I stand in the middle of the main room, looking around at the bare space.
Almost everything is packed up to take to Mr. Sullivan’s place—all of my clothes, personal effects, and some of my art supplies are in a few bags and boxes, leaving the apartment quite empty.
I sigh, taking a last glance around the room, then head to the door. Almost everything is downstairs already, in the car that Mr. Sullivan sent to pick me up. I lock the apartment and trudge down to the ground level.
Mr. Sullivan’s driver is waiting outside of the car, gloved hands folded in front of himself. The car itself is a sleek black sedan, expensive-looking, with polished silver accents.
The driver opens the back door for me, and with an uneasy nod in his direction, I slide inside. All-leather upholstery surrounds me, and I think of my new salary again, wondering idly just how wealthy Mr. Sullivan is.
It feels strange to be driven around like this. When I was over to sign the paperwork, he told me that he would be sending a car. I protested, but he insisted, so here we are.
The car winds its way through the city’s traffic, eventually pulling up in front of the familiar row of brownstones. I smile, reminded that, at the very least, I’ll be living much closer to Noah now.
The driver helps me out of the car, and starts to unpack my bags from the trunk. I approach the front door cautiously, expecting to run into Mr. Sullivan again, with his unearthly face and cold eyes.
Instead, an older woman in a carefully-tied apron meets me at the door. Her hair is in a long plait, brown streaked with threads of silver. She reaches out to shake my hand, smiling.
“You must be Sophie,” she says. “Welcome. Mr. Sullivan is busy at the moment, so I’ll be showing you around today. My name is Laura.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, accepting the handshake. I’m a little surprised and, I’ll admit, disappointed. Mr. Sullivan may be intimidating, but it’s my first day on the job and I wish I could have gotten the tour from him.
After all, the more time I spend with him, the less frosty he’ll seem. Right?
Laura guides me into the house, which, of course, is beautiful. It feels more lived-in than Noah’s place.
It’s spotless, the wooden floors gleaming and polished; there’s artwork hanging on the walls, a tasteful mixture of modern and classical. I stare at some of the framed works as I pass by them, awed.
Despite the decor, it doesn’t feel like a museum. Here and there lie pieces of evidence that a child lives here—scattered toys, an old high chair stashed in a closet.
Laura walks me through the kitchen, the dining room, and the main living area. I pass close to the mantelpiece, looking at all of the photos of Archer, who really is an adorable kid.
She walks me to the second floor, pausing next to the first door on the landing. “This will be your room,” she says.
I step inside, and immediately, I’m blown away. This one room is close to the size of my entire apartment. There’s a king-sized bed with fluffy white sheets; I have to stop myself from running over to it and diving into the pillows.
There’s a desk against one wall, between two large windows that illuminate the entire room, making it seem even more spacious. In the corner, another doorway leads to an attached, private bathroom.
I take it all in, walking slowly around the room in absent-minded circles. Laura stands by the door, smiling at me indulgently, her hands folded in front of her.
After a few moments, I glance back at her. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s just—”
“I understand,” she replies warmly. She steps to the side as the driver enters the room, one of my suitcases in each hand.
“Oh, you don’t have to—I can help with those,” I say, stepping toward the door. Laura stops me, holding out a hand and shaking her head.
“No, no. That’s his job. Your job is to get settled in.” She gestures to the bags. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Um…” I look at the suitcases, suddenly unable to remember what I packed in them. “I don’t think so.”
“Well, I’ll be here, if you need anything,” she says. “Just give me a shout. I’ll be working down the hall.”
I return her smile. I was disappointed not to be shown around by Mr. Sullivan himself, but at least I know that his housekeeper—my coworker, I realize with a start—is a good person, someone I can turn to. “Thank you for everything.”
As she’s leaving the room, I can’t help but blurt out, “Actually, wait. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” She glances over her shoulder.
“What kept Mr. Sullivan? Why couldn’t he show me around?” Now that I’ve said it out loud, the question sounds almost childish. I can feel heat rising in my cheeks, but Laura doesn’t seem to think it was a strange thing to ask.
“Mr. Sullivan is a busy man,” she explains. “He’s almost always working, even when he doesn’t have to be. You start to get used to it after a while.”
“Oh, okay. Thanks.”
Laura smiles at me, then leaves the room. For the first time, I’m alone in my new housing.
The room is spacious and airy. Now that I’m by myself, I give in to the urge to collapse onto the bed. The mattress is as soft as I was hoping, and the sheets are to die for—I can’t imagine what the thread count on these must be.
After a few moments of luxuriating on the bed, I push myself upright and go to one of my suitcases. Time to get settled.
I lose track of time as I start to unpack. I’m halfway through the first bag when a deep voice surprises me.
“How is everything so far?”
I jump, looking up at the doorway. Mr. Sullivan is standing there, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up past the elbows. I get a glimpse of his perfectly-toned forearms and swallow, suddenly flustered. He looks sexier than ever.
I manage to keep my self-consciousness under wraps, stopping myself from reaching up to nervously twine my fingers into my hair. “It’s fantastic—I love the room. Thank you.”
“Good,” he says. He gives me a once-over, and I blush again, deeper this time. I wonder if he’s remembering the last time we saw each other in person, when I had just climbed out of the bath and my towel slipped. I know I am.
For an instant, something burns in his eyes, a quiet intensity as we look at each other. Then the moment passes, and he turns away.
“You’ll officially start your duties tomorrow,” he tells me. “Take the evening to settle in.”
“Th-thank you,” I stammer. He leaves without another word, and I’m left kneeling in a pile of clothes, waiting for my heartbeat to calm down.