10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Aurora
Spending the past two weeks with Misha has been incredibly rewarding.
Getting to know him, learning about his likes and dislikes, and fitting into his routine has affirmed that the path I’m trying to get back on—the one I stumbled off—is where I belong.
The fact that he’s warmed up to me so quickly certainly boosted my confidence.
We start our mornings by making breakfast together, frying eggs or pancakes, and cutting fruit.
I got him a special knife designed for little kids, which he’s enjoying learning to use.
We practice naming the items we use, like knife, eggs, pan, salt, banana.
He knows most of them, though he says some in Russian.
I try to learn those too, although with caution because he pronounces them with a cute three-year-old accent that makes me worry I might accidentally say something inappropriate.
By the time Sergei usually gets home from work, we are in the midst of Misha’s bedtime routine.
I try to keep him awake long enough for Sergei to at least say goodnight.
Some evenings, he gets home in time to read to Misha before bed.
When he does, I make sure to stay out of the way so they can have some alone time.
One evening, while waiting in the living room for Sergei to tuck Misha in, I slip in an earbud to finish listening to the podcast episode I started. “…She never expected the killer to be her friendly-looking neighbor, illustrating, once again, that we can never truly know the people in our lives.”
A hand brushes my shoulder. I jump so hard I nearly drop my phone, catching it at the last second with a quick save the likes of a Mrs. Smith wine bottle maneuver.
When I whip around, amusement flashes across Sergei’s face, softening his features. “Sorry.”
I quickly stand, feeling awkward as Sergei lingers in the doorway. “That’s okay,” I reply, half nodding, half shaking my head. “Did he go down with no issues?”
“Yes,” Sergei answers. “How is he?”
“Mish is great.” I notice the corner of Sergei’s lip twitch upward at the nickname. “He’s such an inquisitive kid. Oh!” I rush closer to him. “We were in the car today, and all of a sudden he said he needed to poop.”
Sergei’s brows furrow deeply, creating a sudden crease in his forehead.
“No, no, don’t worry! Spoiler alert, he made it!
” I clap my hands together, my excitement bubbling over.
“I’ve been trying to get him to wear regular underwear these past few days, just to see how he does, you know?
” I shift back and forth, eager to share the story as Sergei’s gaze remains locked on me.
“So, he says he needs to poop, and oh my gosh, you should’ve seen Anton’s face. He looked absolutely terrified!”
I laugh, recalling Anton’s panicked expression.
“I’m getting off track! Anyway, he says he needs to poop, and we’re literally stuck in traffic, bumper to bumper on Lincoln Avenue.
I tell him to try and hold it and squeeze his cheeks, so he…
” I can’t contain my laughter as the scene replays in my head, and I step closer to Sergei. “He does this—”
Before I can stop myself, I grab his face with both hands and squish his cheeks until his lips puff out.
We both freeze. His face is smooth, and despite it being the end of the day, he still carries the scent of aftershave mixed with something citrusy. I’m on my tiptoes, yet he towers over me by at least four or five inches.
“He thought I was talking about his face cheeks, not…” I swallow hard, and when Sergei’s gaze drifts to my lips, I pull back, jolted by the electric charge that passes between us.
“Sorry,” I mumble, backing away and focusing on anything in the room but him.
Oh, look at those dry branches in the vase over there.
He clears his throat. “And how are you… adjusting to being his nanny?” he asks, shifting his stance.
“It’s great. I love it.” My face warms up, certainly turning a bright red. The large clock on the wall chimes, drawing my attention. “Oh, look at the time. I should get going, or I’ll be late.” I start walking toward Sergei, whose broad frame blocks the entrance to the room.
“Late?” he asks, glancing at his watch.
I bite my lower lip. “For my other job.”
“Am I not paying you enough?” His tone drops, but I can’t figure out if it’s because he’s offended or angry.
“Oh, no. No!” I hurry to add, “It’s just…
Anton told me that you can be a bit quick to dismiss nannies.
So I thought I should wait a bit longer to see how this”—I gesture between us and make a circular motion with my finger—“develops. It would majorly suck if I quit my other job only for you to decide to throw me to the curb.” I punctuate my words with a little kick, chuckling awkwardly when Sergei’s face remains firm.
A muscle ticks in his jaw. He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I think your job is secure. Mish”—he pauses—“seems to like you.”
I pretend to wipe imaginary sweat from my forehead. “Unless I do something crazy like wear shoes in the house,” I whisper under my breath.
His gaze sweeps over me, a host of emotions crisscrossing his features. “Your job is safe,” he repeats, jerking his attention to the clock and tugging at his sleeve.
I imagine the sound of Misha’s yellow mechanic bulldozer, because something must have lifted the heavy weight off my chest—suddenly, my ribs are able to properly expand.
“For real?” Absentmindedly, I take a step forward to hug him before I remember who he is, and who I am, and how I already embarrassed myself by touching his face a second ago.
So, I pull myself back and tuck a frustrating strand of hair behind my ear.
“It appears I have more faith in you than you do, Miss Sinclair.” He turns and heads toward his office. “And it would be an injustice to deprive us of your mismatched socks,” he adds before closing the door behind him.
I stand in the hallway, flabbergasted. It usually takes people months to recognize my self-deprecating tendencies, yet Sergei manages it after barely interacting with me.
I decide not to dwell on whether he’s simply adept at reading people or if my less-than-positive image of myself has become so apparent, even those who usually wouldn’t notice me now do.
The following Friday, after I’m done watching Misha for the day, with an uncharacteristic confidence that the nanny job is going well, I march into Dancing Monk, ready to bid Dave goodbye.
“No,” he says, not bothering to look up from his phone.
My mouth drops open, the wind knocked out of me. “What do you mean, ‘no’? I’m quitting,” I repeat.
He props both legs up on the desk. “I mean… no.” He keeps typing on his phone, not bothering to look at me.
I glance around Dave’s office, half expecting this to be some kind of prank. “I don’t think you can say no to this.”
“You know what?” He finally looks at me. “Sure. But since you’re leaving me in a bind with no notice whatsoever, I’ll have Yara cover for you.” His thin lips curve into a condescending smile.
No. No. No. Yara is going to visit her sister. Panic sets in, and my whole body starts to tingle. I can’t be the reason she misses her visit. What will her sister even do? I think Yara mentioned her brother-in-law is deployed, so she’s the only one who can help.
“But her sister is having surgery,” I plead, knowing full well that this argument is pointless, especially with someone like Dave. He once made Layla work a full shift with a 102-degree fever.
“That’s too bad. I need a waitress, so… what’s it going to be? You or her?” His tone drips with malice.
“But I have a new job. I can’t keep working here. I might be able to cover tonight’s shift so you’re not short-staffed, but—”
“You or her?” he repeats, standing up and striding confidently toward me.
I thought Layla was exaggerating her stories about Dave. I always try to believe there’s goodness in everyone, but my God, I think he might be one of those people who wouldn’t recognize how to be a decent human being if it smacked him in the face.
“Fine,” I mumble under my breath.
“What’s that?” he asks, leaning in close, his warm garlic breath brushing my ear. I resist the urge to pull away, afraid of antagonizing him.
“I’ll stay,” I reply, louder this time.
“That’s what I thought.” He winks. “Table three needs refills. Start with them.”
I spend the next two exhausting hours running around in a skimpy skirt and tight shirt.
Dave insisted that my jeans and sweater were inappropriate for his staff, so he pulled out some spare clothes from a box in his office.
While I was fine with changing into something more fitting for the job, the “clothes” he handed me are anything but appropriate, being that they are at least one size too small.
The black skirt is so short that every time I lean over a table, the people behind me get a front-row seat to my butt.
When I bend down to pick up an empty plate or deliver a dish, I have to yank up the shirt, terrified that my breasts might spill out.
Luckily, the bra I’m wearing is full-coverage, keeping everything relatively in place.
My personal hell is amplified by the chaos at the bar, where the college men’s basketball team is locked in on one of the season’s most intense games, with both teams trading leads every few minutes. A break cannot come fast enough.
“Table two is ready to order,” Dave says from behind me, as if sensing my flagging energy.
I drag myself toward the table, the realization that I’ll be juggling both jobs for the next two weeks settling heavily on my shoulders.
Or more so my back, because it’s started spasming every time I lift a tray.
As I approach, I fumble with the tablet, which stubbornly refuses to turn on.
Must everything be a struggle right now?
“Welcome to Dancing Monk. My name is Aurora, and I’ll be your server tonight,” I recite automatically once the device springs to life.
“What can I—” I freeze when I look up and recognize who’s sitting at table two. “What are you doing here?”