Chapter 1 #2
Like our whole history was just a wrong turn on the way to someone better.
And she said it without flinching. No tears. No hesitation. Like I was a phase she’d outgrown. A mistake she was finally brave enough to fix.
And then she packed. Left slow, like she wanted to make sure I watched her go. Bag slung over her shoulder, no look back. No kiss for the baby. Not even a second glance.
She left everything behind except herself.
And all I could do was stand there and let her.
Leon was barely three months old. Couldn’t even sit up on his own yet, just this soft, squirming little thing who still smelled like milk and sleep, completely helpless. No real words. Just coos and cries and that gummy little smile that breaks your chest open if you look at it too long.
And she walked out like he wasn’t even real. Like he wasn’t hers.
I guess somewhere between spit-up on her shirts and midnight feedings, she found the time to hook a new man.
One with more money. More patience. A bigger house.
Maybe a fancier car. Maybe a smoother way of talking.
And apparently, according to what she so generously offered me that Saturday—he had a better dick, too.
Ain’t that something?
So now I make do. No time to be angry, no space to be anything but awake and grinding. I work when I can, pick up every damn shift they’ll give me even if my back’s screaming, even if I’m running on three hours of broken sleep and whatever coffee’s left in the pot from the night before.
Daycare? That’s a goddamn joke. Couldn’t afford it even if I wanted to.
They charge like you’re putting your kid through college.
So I call sitters off a Facebook group—girls barely out of high school themselves, charging twenty bucks to half-watch him while they scroll on their phones.
Some of ’em are sweet, sure. Some of them actually try.
But none of them are her. None of them are me.
Every morning is a gamble. Will the sitter show?
Will she bail last minute? Will Leon cry the whole time I’m gone?
Will he eat? Will she change him? It’s a rotation of worry that never stops.
I leave him, and I carry him in my gut the whole shift, picturing worst-case scenarios and telling myself to shut up and weld.
Meals are an afterthought. I scrape leftovers together from whatever’s cheap—canned beans, Kraft mac, cold hot dogs cut up on paper plates.
Sometimes I eat Leon’s leftovers. Sometimes I don’t eat at all.
Some nights I sit at the kitchen table after he’s asleep, staring at a can of beans with a spoon in my hand and wondering how the fuck this became my life.
But I can’t stop. Can’t slip. Can’t break down, no matter how bad it gets. Because if I lose my job, I lose my son. And I’ve already lost enough.
No one’s coming to save me.
So I put on my gloves. I shut the fuck up.
And I go back to work.
----
It’s another day, another spin of the wheel—will the nanny show, or am I burning another half-shift to drag Leon with me to the job site and hope no one notices?
I found this one late last night. Some girl, said her name was Brielle.
Sounded solid enough on the phone—didn’t giggle every other sentence, didn’t ask if I had snacks stocked or if she could bring a friend over.
Said she had experience with infants. Talked like she had at least one foot out of her twenties.
That’s all I need. Someone who won’t flake, someone who’ll show up and keep my kid alive until I can get back.
Didn’t get a picture. She didn’t offer, and I didn’t ask. Didn’t seem like the type fishing for compliments. Voice was steady. A little tired, but fuck, we’re all tired.
I glance at the clock. Already past 7:20.
I got my work boots on, laces loose, ready to jump into ‘go mode’ the second she arrives, but the second keeps dragging.
I feel it in my gut, that twist, the dread crawling up my spine like a cold hand.
This is how it always starts—with a maybe.
Then a no-show. Then a half-day lost and a pissed-off supervisor breathing down my neck.
Leon’s been changed and fed, babbling on the blanket in the middle of the floor, chewing on the ear of a half-mangled stuffed dog.
He’s in a good mood now, but the clock’s ticking.
I’ve got twenty minutes to get to the site and at least fifteen of those are on the road.
Every second she doesn’t knock is another nail in my foot.
My apartment’s shit—top floor, no insulation, draft under the windows, and the stairs creak like they’re gonna collapse. No buzzer, no doorman. Just you, a lock that sticks, and a peephole scratched like someone keyed it out of boredom.
And then, finally, at 7:30 on the dot, there’s a knock.
Not the kind of knock you get from some tweaked-out neighbor begging for smokes or someone shoving menus under your door. It’s quick, firm. No hesitation.
I step up to the door, still half-expecting the usual—some half-awake kid in a hoodie, eyes red from whatever vape-pen bullshit they were dragging on till 2 a.m., looking like they barely remember the conversation we had.
I lean in to the peephole. It’s scratched to hell, but I can make out a shape. Tall. Hair down. Hoodie zipped up to the collar. Standing there with this slight shift in her stance, like she’s trying to stay still but can’t help moving. Got to be her.
I unlatch the deadbolt, turn the knob, door sticks like always—I have to yank it a little—and then I open it.
And—
Okay.
Alright then.
My brain just… kind of short-circuits for a second.
She’s standing there, framed in that chipped doorframe like she don’t even belong in a place this run-down.
Like the air around her’s cleaner. Long, inky black hair that catches what little hallway light there is and throws it back like satin.
Blue eyes—bright, clear, the kind that hit you square in the chest when they look right at you.
And tall. Not quite my height, but she’s damn close—five-eleven, maybe six-foot in boots.
Legs for miles. But it ain’t even just the height.
It’s the way she holds herself. Straight-backed.
A little hesitant, yeah, but not fragile.
Slim, yeah. Lean frame wrapped up in that hoodie. But it’s obvious she’s built like one of those silent-killer types—soft in all the right places. Her chest…
Shit. She’s stacked.
Not the kind you pass by and forget. No, the kind that makes your mouth go dry, makes you blink twice and pray your brain gets its act together before you start staring like a creep.
I catch myself halfway through imagining what it’d be like to bury my face between those tits, and that’s when her voice cuts in again.
“Hey—are you Desmond Coyle?” she says, soft but steady. Her voice has that kind of texture to it—sweet, a little husky, shy like she doesn’t like being the first to speak but will if she has to.
I blink. Twice.
Christ, get it together.
“Uh—yeah. Desmond. Coyle,” I manage, voice cracking like I forgot how to talk.
She smiles. It’s not big. Just enough to make me feel like an idiot for stammering.
“I’m Brielle. We talked yesterday? About watching your son.”
Right. Right.
The babysitter. The one I needed, begged the universe for. And the universe sent me this?
Now I’m trying to remember if I mentioned I live alone. Trying to recall if I picked up Leon’s damn toys from the couch or if there’s still a dirty diaper in the trash near the door. I should invite her in. Say something normal.
But my mouth’s still trying to work its way around the fact that this knockout just called herself my babysitter. Like some kind of punchline the universe’s setting up to screw with me.
“Yeah. Uh—sure, come on in,” I say, stepping aside, voice still stuck somewhere between dumbstruck and horny. She passes by close, and I get a breath of her.
She smells clean. Not perfumed, not drenched in body spray like Lizzie used to wear—some kind of floral shit that’d choke you out in a closed room.
No, Brielle smells like cheap soap. Gas station stuff, maybe, or dollar store.
Fresh, plain, nothing fancy. The kind of smell you only notice when you’re up close.
Honest. Like she scrubbed up and came straight here. It’s not bad. It’s kind of… grounding.
She steps inside, eyes scan the place quick—worn carpet, busted heater vent, a stack of bottles drying by the sink. No judgment in her face. Just calm, alert.
And then she spots Leon, flopped on the mat in the center of the living room, chewing on the corner of his giraffe toy, kicking his legs like he’s doing baby aerobics.
Without waiting for a prompt or awkward small talk, she walks right over and crouches down beside him. Moves smooth, careful, like she’s done this a hundred times.
“Hi, little guy,” she says, voice all soft and warm, like sugar in tea.
Then she glances up at me, one knee still on the carpet, hands resting on her thighs.
“Can I pick him up?”
It’s not just the words—it’s how she says it. Like she knows better than to assume. Like she respects the space between stranger and child, even in a shitty apartment where everything feels too close.
And for a second, I just stand there staring. She asked. No sitter ever asked. They just scoop him up like a doll or act like he’s an inconvenience. But she’s waiting.
I nod.
She smiles again—smaller this time, barely there—but it’s the kind of smile that makes your pulse jump anyway.
Then she reaches for Leon, careful, palms under his arms, scooping him up slow and steady. He makes this soft little grunt, then giggles. Full on baby laugh, gurgly and bright, like he already decided she’s alright.