7. Riley
I wakeup the next morning cocooned in a bed that feels like a cloud. I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well in my entire life. Between the down pillows and the million-thread-count silk sheets, I’ve never been so comfortable.
It takes a second to remember where I am, and for a moment, I’m overwhelmed at what I’ve taken on. I’ve never been a nanny before. I don’t have that much experience with kids, especially one-on-one. Can I even handle something like that?
Then I think of the little boy, beaming as I handed him the plastic dinosaur. I take a deep breath, sitting up in bed.
You’ll do a good job, I tell myself. That kid needs you. Archie may be surrounded by wealth and luxury, things I never had as a child, but Mr. Sullivan is also clearly too busy to give him everything he needs.
Just like I was, he’s a kid in need of attention. I can fill that gap.
I slide out of bed, putting on slippers as I shuffle to the bathroom to wash my face and get ready for the day. It’s almost seven-thirty by the time I’m dressed and ready to go, and I feel a little burst of nerves; Mr. Sullivan never told me what time to be up. What if it was supposed to be earlier?
I head downstairs, toward the noises I can hear from the kitchen. I’m expecting to see a housekeeper in there, or maybe a personal chef. But when I enter the kitchen, Mr. Sullivan is there, an apron tied around his waist, tending a pan of sizzling bacon.
I manage to hide my surprise. He turns as I enter the kitchen, greeting me with a nod. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” I echo, a little awkwardly. This is such a familiar-seeming morning ritual that I can’t help but feel that I’m invading his space.
But Mr. Sullivan doesn’t seem to mind my presence. And why would he? He asked me to be here. I remind myself that I’ll have to get used to it.
I sit at the counter on the center island, folding my arms on the granite surface.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asks, not looking up from the stove. “I’ve got Ethiopian and Costa Rican blends. I can make you a cappuccino, a latte—anything you want.”
At first, I’m tempted to just ask for something simple—black coffee, none of the works. But then I see the espresso machine in the corner and sigh. It’s my first day on the job. If I want to get used to the way things are in Mr. Sullivan’s house, I might as well dive in headfirst.
“A latte sounds amazing,” I say. “Thank you. And, um… I can’t tell the difference between different coffee beans, so whatever’s easiest.”
He nods, flipping the bacon in the pan, and moves over to the coffee maker, untying the twine from a burlap bag tucked in the corner. The earthy scent of coffee fills the kitchen.
It only takes him a couple of minutes to make the latte. He hands it to me, and I smile at him in thanks. There’s a stiff foam at the top of the mug. The latte itself is delicious—maybe those fancy coffee beans actually do make a difference.
“There’s some bacon here, and I’ve got bagels in the toaster,” he says, turning back to the stove. “Do you have any allergies?”
“Not that I know of,” I joke, trying to get him to crack a smile. He doesn’t, but he does hand me a plate of hot food, which will have to suffice.
As I’m digging into breakfast, Archie wanders into the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Mr. Sullivan’s eyes soften when he sees the boy, and he turns to the door.
“Hey, buddy,” he says. “You want some breakfast?”
Archie nods, but his gaze is fixed on me. He looks a little nervous, and doesn’t say anything, which makes me nervous.
Mr. Sullivan doesn’t seem to notice. He fixes Archie a plate for breakfast, seating him at the table behind the island. Archie starts to eat, and Mr. Sullivan comes back over to me.
“So, let me fill you in on the schedule,” he says. “Archie has pre-K several days a week, so you’ll be responsible for taking him there and back. It starts at nine, and pickup is at noon. You’ll also be responsible for meals, bedtimes, and downtime—keeping him occupied, playing, stuff like that.”
Mr. Sullivan pauses, as if waiting for me to ask a question. I nod emphatically, and he seems satisfied.
“Do you have a smartphone?” he asks.
I pull it out of my pocket, setting it on the table.
“If it’s alright, I’d like you to install the Find-A-Friend app on there,” he says. “Just so that I can find you while you’re out with Archie if I need to.”
“That’s fine,” I reply, tapping at my phone to download the app. It makes sense that he would want to know where his kid is during the day.
“Perfect,” says Mr. Sullivan, seeming relieved that the minutiae is out of the way. He looks over at Archie. “You’re gonna be a good boy, right, Archie? A model citizen?”
Archie nods, still not saying anything. He glances at me shyly, uncertain.
“We’re going to have tons of fun,” I say, grinning at him. I hope he’ll open up to me, but he’s nervous. He drops his gaze as I make eye contact with him. I can feel Mr. Sullivan watching us carefully.
My doubts from earlier this morning come surging back. What am I doing? I don’t know how to be a nanny!
“I’d better get going,” says Mr. Sullivan. “I’m supposed to be in a meeting by nine. All of the other instructions are typed out in the sheet on the counter.” He nods toward the granite countertop, where there’s a laminated paper. “Call me if you need anything.” He turns to Archie and smiles. “See you later, little man.”
Archie waves slightly, glancing at me. He seems to glance at me whenever he thinks I’m not looking at him. If I try to meet his gaze, he looks away immediately.
Mr. Sullivan leaves, and I’m alone with Archie.
“You almost ready to head to pre-K, bud?” I ask him.
Archie shrugs, looking down at the table. I frown. Maybe he’s just tired. After all, he just woke up. We can’t all be morning people.
I follow the directions on the sheet. I make sure he finishes his breakfast, then shuttle him to pre-K, which is at a daycare a few blocks away. I try to chit chat with him as we head over, but he doesn’t say a word to me the entire time.
When he gets back from pre-K, the situation is no better. I was hoping that seeing other kids might perk him up, but he’s as subdued as he was this morning.
I feel like an absolute failure. It’s my first day, and I don’t think I’ve gotten Archie to say more than two sentences to me. What on earth am I doing wrong? This was so much easier the last time I saw him.
Laura shows up in the afternoon to straighten things up, and greets me with a nod. She’s not live-in, but Mr. Sullivan told me that she’ll be by often to make sure everything’s tidy. While she cleans, I try to play with Archie in the living room, but he doesn’t seem interested in any of the toys or games I pull out in my attempts to entice him.
By five o’clock, I’m starting to get really nervous. Mr. Sullivan is going to be back soon, and he’s sure to notice how poorly we’re getting along.
He arrives at the front door at seven-thirty. I can hear the keys jingling, and look forlornly over at Archie, who is sitting on the other side of the room, ignoring me while he colors something with a set of crayons. It was the only activity I suggested that stuck.
Mr. Sullivan enters the living room, looking between me and his child. “So, how was the first day?” he asks me. “Did everything go alright? He behaved himself?”
“Oh, of course,” I say. “He was great.”
I restrain myself from adding, I think he might hate me, though.
Mr. Sullivan seems to notice that for himself as he glances over at Archie. His eyes are calculating as he takes in the distance between us, the frostiness in the room. It definitely hasn’t escaped him.
There’s a flicker of fear in my chest. What if that’s it for me—what if he fires me, decides this isn’t working out? I already gave my notice at the restaurant, so I can’t go back there. I’ll be totally screwed.
“Did you have a good day, Archie?” Mr. Sullivan raises his voice to call over to the boy.
Archie looks up for a moment, then shrugs and goes back to his coloring.
Mr. Sullivan glances at me, gauging my reaction.
“I think he’s just been a little shy today,” I say carefully. He doesn’t respond, but there are definitely unspoken thoughts swirling in those dark blue eyes.
Even though I was on the fence about this job originally, I’m panicking slightly at the idea of being fired. Now that I’ve committed, I want to do this job and do it right. I don’t want to be let go on the first day.
I help Archie get ready for bed, making sure he brushes his teeth and gets into his pajamas. As I’m getting him tucked in, I notice that he brought his drawing upstairs. It sits on the desk in the corner of his room.
I lean over to look at the page, and can’t help smiling fondly at the crude rendering of a long-necked dinosaur.
“That’s a great drawing,” I tell him. “You’re a real artist.”
“Thanks,” he says shortly.
“Is that your friend from the other day? I thought I recognized—”
I break off abruptly. Archie’s eyes have filled with tears. He starts to sniffle, and I feel a pang at seeing the little boy cry.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” I sit down on the edge of his bed, smoothing the bedsheets. I want to ruffle his hair, or pull him into a hug, but I’m worried I’m still too much of a stranger to him.
“I—I lost the dinosaur,” he admits tearfully, between sniffs. “I don’t know where he went.”
“Oh, buddy,” I say, sympathetic.
He looks up at me with huge, glistening eyes. “Are you mad at me?”
“Of course I’m not mad at you!”
“But—but you told me that I had to take care of him.”
I smile at him, a little bit of the worry melting from me. This must be why he was quiet all day. He doesn’t hate me after all.
“It’s okay, Archie,” I tell him. “Sometimes dinosaurs leave to go on adventures, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. But if it’ll make you feel better, I can help you look for him.”
“Really?”
“You bet. He might still be around. Let’s check.”
Archie climbs out of bed, and the two of us spend the next three minutes digging through his room.
Archie goes straight for the laundry basket, which seems a little improbable to me as a place to find the dinosaur. I poke around the desk, getting on my hands and knees to search the floor.
“He’s not in the laundry,” Archie declares. He sounds like he’s already in higher spirits than he was earlier—now that the truth is out, and he knows he’s not in trouble, all he really wants is to find his dinosaur.
“It doesn’t seem like he’s under your desk, either,” I say. “Let’s check the bed—aha!”
I reach under the bed frame for a familiar-looking, long-necked plastic creature. When I emerge triumphant, holding the dinosaur aloft, Archie gasps.
“Looks like someone was exploring under your bed for you,” I say, handing him the dinosaur.
“Thank you!” Archie exclaims, delighted. “You found him!”
“He was already on his way back from his adventure,” I say. “He just got a little lost, that’s all. Happens to the best of us.”
Archie nods seriously, then looks down at the dino. “Don’t get lost again,” he says firmly.
“You might have to help him out with that, kiddo,” I say with a laugh. “But if he ever goes out exploring again, you know to check under your bed. That’s where all the best dinosaur adventures happen.”
Archie giggles, and I stifle my sigh of relief. Thank goodness. Things aren’t nearly as drastic as I thought they were.
I tuck Archie into bed. He insists on laying the dinosaur on the pillow beside him.
“He likes to sleep next to me,” Archie tells me, talkative now that the crisis has passed. “Otherwise, he gets nightmares by himself. That was why I was worried about him, ’cause he doesn’t like to be alone.”
“That makes sense,” I say, nodding seriously. “You’re a good friend to keep him company.”
The door opens partway, and some extra light spills into the room from the hall. I look up to see Mr. Sullivan standing in the entrance, a look of surprise on his face, like he wasn’t expecting to interrupt a conversation between me and Archie.
“You just about ready for bed?” Mr. Sullivan says, stooping to plant a kiss on Archie’s forehead.
Archie hums in affirmation, and Mr. Sullivan smiles. Again, I see that soft look on his face, the one that’s so drastically different from the grave expression he usually wears.
“Glad to hear it. Sleep tight, Archie.” Mr. Sullivan gives me a nod, then retreats back into the hallway.
“Can I get a story tonight?” Archie asks, followed immediately by a wide yawn.
“Sure thing.” I glance over at the bookshelf against the opposite wall, which is stacked with picture books, then look back at Archie. “I could read you a book from the shelf, or I could tell you a story about what happened on your dino friend’s adventure.”
Archie breathes in sharply. “When he was under the bed?”
“What do you think he was doing down there?” I arch an eyebrow, like I know something he doesn’t.
Archie shakes his head, eyes wide with wonder.
I launch into the story, a daring tale of adventure, in which Archie’s dinosaur searches for lost treasure and meets a flock of dust bunnies. I’m making it up as I go along, but Archie seems enraptured anyway—that is, until he starts to drift off, his weariness overpowering his interest in the story.
He falls asleep before the conclusion, and I smile fondly at him, beyond relieved that he seems relaxed around me. I tuck him in and quietly leave the room, closing the door behind me.
As first days go, I reflect, it could have been much, much worse.
I head down to the kitchen. When I enter, I see Mr. Sullivan sitting at the island, a glass of caramel-colored whiskey on the granite countertop in front of him. Classic presentation, too, poured over a single, large ice cube in a rocks glass.
He notices me and nods in greeting. “Is Archie asleep?”
“Yes,” I say. “He was pretty tired. It was lights out before we finished the dinosaur story.”
At that, a begrudging smile tugs at the corner of Mr. Sullivan’s lips. He takes a sip of whiskey, then gestures to me with the glass. “Do you want something to drink? I have scotch and bourbon, and some wine in the cabinet.”
“I’m okay—thank you.”
“You’re not on the clock at night, you know,” he points out. “Any nighttime needs Archie might have, I’ll handle them. You’re free to enjoy yourself.”
“That’s good to know,” I say with a grin. “But I think I’ll still pass on the drink for tonight. Thank you, though.”
I’m still a little too nervous around Mr. Sullivan to trust myself with alcohol. I don’t want to let my guard down; I might blurt out something stupid if I drink around him.
“I’m glad Archie seems to be warming up to you,” Mr. Sullivan says after a short pause. He seems to be forcing the words out, and I can tell, with a prickle of awkwardness, that he’s not used to making this kind of small talk.
“Yeah,” I agree. “He was a little quiet this morning, but we’ve gotten to know each other a little better since then.”
“That’s good.” Mr. Sullivan takes another drink of the whiskey. The ice clinks in the glass. “Oh, I forgot to mention earlier—there may sometimes be events at Archie’s pre-K that I will need you to attend. Is that alright with you?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Good.” Mr. Sullivan nods. “I want you to be able to speak to his teachers and everything, so that we’re all on the same page.”
“That’s no problem at all. He’s a great kid,” I say sincerely. “Very sweet.”
The little half-smile returns to Mr. Sullivan’s face. “Yeah. I think so, too.”
“He has a lot of empathy,” I add, thinking about how upset Archie was about the loss of the dinosaur. He was less sad about losing a toy than he was worried about the dinosaur, and worried about how I would react.
There’s a distant look in Mr. Sullivan’s gaze as he nods in agreement. He doesn’t say anything.
Trying to break the stilted silence, I continue hesitantly, “I heard that you took him in after his mother died. That was really good of you.”
Immediately, all remnants of Mr. Sullivan’s smile fade from his face. He looks closed-off, his expression severe and foreboding. He stands with jerky movements, like a robot, and says coldly, “I need to get some work done.”
He leaves the kitchen, brushing past me without a backwards glance. I stand by the island, staring into the hallway in confusion.
After a few moments, I heave a sigh. Apparently, it doesn’t even take any booze for me to put my foot in my mouth around my new boss. Great.
* * *
Cole
When I getto my office, I set the half-finished glass of whiskey on the desk and collapse into one of the armchairs in the sitting area, rubbing my forehead.
I have another handle of this scotch on the bar cart in the corner of the room, which is good—I’m definitely going to need it after that conversation, if it could even be considered that.
I’m unsettled, even after all this time, by the mention of Rebecca. I’m sure that Riley learned some of the details of the situation from her brother—I mentioned it to Noah when we first met, so it’s not altogether surprising.
And besides, it’s not like I planned to keep it from her. If she’s going to be the kid’s guardian, she deserves to know things like this. Still, her mentioning it threw me off balance.
The way she looked at me, her eyes luminous and sincere, threw me off balance.
Earlier today, when Archie was closed-off and shy, I was starting to think that maybe this wouldn’t work after all. The thought filled me with conflicting feelings. In all honesty, I think I was hoping that Archie’s standoffishness this morning meant that Riley wouldn’t be a good fit after all.
But when I saw the two of them in his bedroom half an hour ago, they seemed bonded already, Archie chatting happily and smiling.
I reach out instinctively for the glass of whiskey, draining the rest of it in one swallow.
I was so determined to get her to work for me, but now that she’s here, I can’t help thinking that it might have been a bad idea. I can’t help looking for reasons to walk it back.
Because, as much as I try to pretend otherwise, I’m fucking attracted to her. Deeply so.
She’s gorgeous in an effortless way. Something about her, and the way she carries herself, draws me in, makes me want more.
She’s too young for me, though, and now that she works for me, she’s off-limits. The only thing to do is ignore her. Ignore her and let her do her job, not offer her drinks and definitely not confide in her about my whole damned life story.
I glance over at the desk, where a screensaver is playing on the waiting screens, a slideshow of generic stock images floating and fading into one another.
I wasn’t lying when I said I had some work to get done. It’s just that it’s always true; there’s always work I could be doing. It’s the perfect escape, something I can lose myself in whenever I need to. Something constant. Something easy.
I get up from the armchair, making a quick stop at the bar cart to top off my drink before settling in behind the desk, waking the computer.