“She is. But I don’t get why you’re hiding.”
“I’m fucking exhausted,” he says. “I can’t perform on command just because her temperature is right. It’s like she doesn’t care whether or not I’m in the mood, she just wants me to give it up whenever she snaps her fingers. At first I thought trying to make a baby would be great. Extra sex? Sign me up. But this is getting ridiculous. Does she want me to come home for lunch every day because she misses me? No, she just wants another sperm injection. Same with early mornings, after work, and don’t get me started on weekends. She got in the shower, so I made a break for it.”
I really don’t want to hear about my sister having sex with her husband, but this is kind of hilarious. “So, you’re telling me that you, Weston Reid, found a limit to how much sex you can have?”
“It’s not that.” He shoots me a glare and I think I touched a nerve. “I can as often as she wants. But would it kill her to put in a little effort for me? It’s so clinical. I’m not a piece of meat.”
I can’t help but laugh and he glares at me again. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m being serious,” he says.
“I know, I know.” I stop laughing, but there’s no way this isn’t funny. “Yeah, I bet that’s rough.”
“You have no idea,” he says. “When a woman gets it in her head that she wants to get knocked up, there’s no stopping her. I’m just a dick and a couple of testicles to her lately.”
It’s awful of me, but seeing Weston with bruised feelings is rather amusing. The guy used to be, in Kendra’s words, a total man-whore. I don’t think I want to know how many women he used for sex before he decided to settle down with my sister. It’s funny to see the tables turned on him a little bit.
His phone dings and he groans while he pulls it out. “Oh, great.”
“What?”
“Her cervical fluid is the right consistency,” he says.
I put a hand to my forehead. “I am so sorry I asked.”
He starts typing. “I’m telling her to come here.”
“Uh, you’re not getting your wife pregnant here,” I say.
He glares at me again. “No, I need to distract her for a little while. She hasn’t seen Bug recently anyway.” He looks around as if suddenly noticing the absence of Charlotte. “Where is she?”
“She’s at the park with Linnea, the new nanny. They’ll be home soon.”
Weston nods, then looks at his phone again. “Yeah, she’s coming by. Don’t tell her what I said, though.”
“Don’t worry, that’s not a conversation I want to repeat.”
The front door opens and Linnea and Charlotte come in. Charlotte sees Weston and her eyes light up.
“Uncle Weston!” She rushes over and jumps in his lap.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says.
Linnea comes into the living room. “Oh, hi.”
I introduce Linnea to Weston and she gives him a shy smile.
“I think my sister is coming over too,” I say. “Sorry to inundate you with people so soon.”
“That’s okay,” she says. “But it was hot outside. I’m going to run upstairs and change.”
“Sure, take your time.”
“I’m going to change too,” Charlotte says.
I’m about to tell her she doesn’t need to when I stop myself. There’s no reason to tell her not to change her clothes, and it’s cute to see her copying Linnea.
The girls head upstairs and Weston looks at me with raised eyebrows.
“What?” I ask.
“She’s your new nanny?”
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s Melanie’s sister, actually.”
“Wow,” Weston says. “Well, you’re fucked, aren’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know what I mean,” he says.
“No, it’s not like that,” I say. “She’s just here to help me with Charlotte.”
“Right,” Weston says. “Where’s she staying?”
I hesitate because I know exactly what he’s going to think. “Here.”
He laughs. “Yeah. Good luck with that.”
“I don’t need luck, because there’s nothing going on,” I say. “I’ve always had nannies for Charlotte. I don’t have issues keeping my dick to myself.”
He stands and pats me on the shoulder. “Of course not. And she’s just another nanny.”
4
Linnea
Charlotte’s school is walking distance from their house—one of the reasons Caleb bought it, I think, which of course makes me a little melty. I shake my head and try to stop thinking about him. I have a job to do, but I keep getting lost in little daydreams about him. It’s ridiculous, really. I figured I’d get over my insta-crush right away, but here I am, weeks later, and I still find myself thinking about his smile.
Okay, so I’m thinking about more than his smile. But damn it, he has so many things to daydream about.
Most of the other people waiting for the first graders to get out are moms. Several have toddlers in strollers or clinging to their legs. One little girl, who always has the cutest little pigtails, claps and squeals when her big sister comes out. It’s the sweetest thing.
I bet Charlotte would love to be a big sister.
Not for the first time since I moved here, I think about my own sister. I still feel guilty, like I’ve never been sad enough over losing her. I was sad when she died. I cried and felt that crushing sense of loss that makes the world feel like it’s dull and gray—like you aren’t sure if you’ll ever be happy again.
But after a while, I got on with my life. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say, I went back to trying to survive the hell that was high school. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. My teen years weren’t exactly smooth sailing, and losing my sister in the midst of it didn’t make things easier.
I was so shy, I had a hard time functioning at school. Luckily, I didn’t get bullied—I was too invisible for that. No one noticed me. But it’s a strange thing to walk through crowded hallways, constantly surrounded by people, and feel as if they can see right through you. As if nothing would change if you weren’t there.
I came out of my shell a little more in college. Being away from home helped. My parents were always critical and it was impossible to live up to Melanie. She was so perfect. And when she was gone, all their hopes and dreams came to rest squarely on my shoulders.
But I was such a strange, quiet thing. My family didn’t understand me—not my love of music, nor my soft-spoken demeanor. There was a time, when I was about eleven, when I became quite convinced I must have been adopted. I don’t even look like my parents. Apparently I take after my paternal grandmother. But it was hard being the odd one in the family. All I ever wanted was to feel normal.
Being the nanny among what I’m pretty sure are mostly mothers is a little strange, but I won’t let it get to me. Although I’m not nearly as shy as I used to be, I still have a hard time striking up conversations with strangers. There’s one mom who makes eye contact with me and smiles most days. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to say hi to her and introduce myself, but so far, I haven’t quite done it. Soon. Maybe I’ll be brave enough soon.
The door opens, the pigtail girl claps and bounces up and down on her toes, and the kids start coming out. The teacher makes sure there’s a parent or other adult waiting before she lets each child go. I wait as Charlotte’s classmates are all released to their respective adults.
Kids stop coming out, but I don’t see Charlotte. The teacher, Ms. Peterson, glances back a few times, then makes eye contact with me. “Hold on one second.”
She disappears from the doorway, and I step forward to peek inside. Charlotte is still sitting at one of the tables. I can see her name tag, decorated with pink flowers: Charlotte Lawson. Caleb did her hair this morning, and it’s still in a ponytail with a pink clip holding the wisps of hair that tend to fall around her face.
She’s staring at the table, her expressio
n blank. Her hands are limp in her lap and her backpack is propped up against one of the table legs.
“Charlotte,” Ms. Peterson says. “It’s time to go. Your nanny is here to pick you up.”
Charlotte’s eyes lift, meeting mine, and I burst into the classroom. She looks terrified, her brown eyes pleading with me to help her.
“Bug.” I crouch down next to her chair. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
Her lower lip trembles, but her eyes stay dry. She doesn’t say anything.
I gently brush a little tendril of hair away from her forehead. “You ready to go?”
She nods.
“Okay, Bug. Let’s get your backpack. Do you want me to carry it for you?”
She nods again.
I grab her backpack by the top strap and stand, but she still doesn’t move. Ms. Peterson crosses her arms and sighs. My eyes snap to her.
“She just needs a minute,” I say.
Ms. Peterson doesn’t say anything, but her impatience is like a cheap perfume, saturating the air with its odor.
I lean down enough to grab Charlotte’s hand and gently coax her out of her chair. “Do you think we should make popcorn when we get home? I’ve been thinking about popcorn all day, but I didn’t make any. I think we should make some together.”
She slides her hand in mine and squeezes it tight. I don’t know why she’s so scared, but I cast another glance back at Ms. Peterson. Did she say something to upset Charlotte? I’m angry at the very thought of it, but I don’t think Charlotte will tell me anything here. I need to get her home.
“Do you like butter on your popcorn, Bug?” I ask, leading her toward the still-open door. She’s holding my hand so tight, it almost hurts. She has quite a grip.
We get outside and Charlotte stops. The door closes behind us and I can’t help but shoot a glare that Ms. Peterson won’t see. I can tell she’s frustrated with Charlotte, and it makes me not like her very much. I crouch down again so I can look Charlotte in the eyes.
“Bug, can you talk to me? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
She looks down at the ground, keeping my hand in a death grip. “You didn’t forget.”
“I didn’t forget what, sweetie?”
“Me.”
“Of course I didn’t forget you,” I say. “Were you afraid I would?”
She nods, but doesn’t look up.
“Why would you be afraid I’d forget you?”
“It’s the seventeenth day,” she says.
“I don’t understand.”
“Brittany forgot me on the seventeenth day.”
“Your old nanny? Do you mean she forgot to pick you up at school? But what does the seventeenth day mean? The seventeenth day of what?”
“The seventeenth day of being my nanny.”
“Oh,” I say, understanding dawning on me. “Is today my seventeenth day?”
Her voice is so tiny. “Yes.”
I pull her forward and wrap my arms around her. “Oh, Bug. I’m not going to forget you. Not on the seventeenth day. Not on any day.”
She nods against me and I can feel her little body shake as she starts to cry.
“You were worried about that all day, weren’t you?” I ask.
“Uh huh.”
I rub her back slowly and let her cry into my shoulder. I want to cry along with her. It breaks my heart to think of her fretting all day long, worried that I wouldn’t be here to pick her up.
“Listen,” I say, and pull back a little so I can look at her. I wipe the tears from beneath her eyes. “I’m going to make you a promise, right now. Do you understand what promise means?”
“Yes,” she says. “It’s like an oath.”
“It is like an oath,” I say. “And that’s a great word. I’ll make you an oath, okay? I promise I will never forget you. If I’m supposed to be here, I’ll be here. I will always be here for you.”
“Every time?” she asks.
“Every single time,” I say. “No matter what.”
She sniffs and I wipe away her last tear. “Did you say popcorn?”
I laugh. “I sure did. Let’s go home.”
We walk home, hand-in-hand, and she’s no longer holding onto me with a death grip. When we get there, I make a big tub of popcorn with lots of salt and butter. She might not be hungry for dinner now, but I figure sometimes a girl needs to ruin her appetite.
Caleb comes home just before her bedtime. She runs to greet him at the door as soon as she hears his keys. Like always, he scoops her up and holds her for long moments.
The whole thing is really not fair. He’s so gorgeous he makes my breath catch every time I look at him. He’s smart and funny. He’s a genuinely nice guy in a world where so many of them aren’t. And he loves his daughter so much. I didn’t think they made men like him. Maybe in books or movies, but not in real life. And yet, there he is, standing by the front door, as real as can be.
And completely unattainable for someone like me.
I let out a long breath and smile when Caleb comes into the living room, still carrying Charlotte. She has her head resting on his shoulder.
“I’ll get her to bed,” he says.
“There’s dinner in there for you,” I say. “I put it away, so you can just heat it up or save it if you’re not hungry.”
He holds my eyes and I wish I knew what he was thinking. It’s almost like he’s spellbound. By what, I can’t imagine. But he just stands there for a long moment, rubbing slow circles across Charlotte’s back, his gaze locked with mine.
He blinks and clears his throat. “Thank you. I’m starving, actually. I’ll be down in a little bit.”
“Okay.”
Charlotte murmurs a goodnight as he takes her upstairs. I watch them go, feeling a little ache in my chest.
5
Caleb
My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I’m walking out of room 305. It’s been a quiet morning, which is a welcome respite after last night’s chaos. They haven’t needed me in the OR yet today, so I’ve been busy checking on patients.
Linnea: I’m stopping at the store. Need anything?
Me: Maybe more of those condoms.
Me: WAIT. NO.
Me: Cookies. I swear I meant cookies. The lemon ones. God, never mind.
Linnea: It’s fine! Yeah, I can get those.
Me: Charlotte is out of school early today, right?
Linnea: Yep. 11:30.
Me: Want to come by the hospital after? We can get some boobs.
Me: NO
Me: BOOBS
Me: OMG
Me: F O O D
Me: I’m so sorry. Stupid autocorrect. Lunch. We can get lunch.
Linnea: That’s OK. Yeah, sounds good. I’m lesbian soon so I’ll see you then.
Linnea: OMG, no!
Linnea: I’m LESBIAN soon.
Linnea: Why, autocorrect? Is it contagious? No, I’m leaving soon. LEAVING.
Linnea: I think we should quit now. I’ll see you at lunch.
I shake my head and put my phone back in my pocket. Well that was mortifying. Condoms? Boobs? You have got to be kidding me, autocorrect. I’m glad Linnea has a good sense of humor or I could be in trouble.
My pager beeps, sending a familiar surge of adrenaline through me. I’ve been wakened from a fitful half-sleep by that sound so many times, it always makes me feel like I have to jump out of bed, no matter what I’m doing.
I’m needed in the ER for a surgical consult, so I head downstairs. The attending and I decide to admit the patient for overnight observation before resorting to surgery. The rest of my morning goes by quickly. I have more patients to check up on. The intestinal perforation is stable and doing well, and the cholecystectomy looks like he’ll be ready to be discharged in the morning. His wife is with him, so I spend some time answering her questions.
Seeing the gratitude in her eyes reminds me why I got into this field in the first place. Sometimes I wonder if I chose the right specialty. Being a traum
a surgeon can be intense and stressful, and the hours aren’t great. I look at Weston with his cushy office and flexible schedule and wonder if I should be doing something else.
But trauma surgery is so rewarding. It’s like a puzzle. If a patient comes to me, they’re in bad shape, and it’s my job to figure out what’s wrong with them. Time seems to slow and all my senses sharpen. I have to think fast and act quickly. Very often the patient’s life is in my hands. I don’t get that kind of a rush from anything else, and I have to admit, it’s addictive.
And I’m good at what I do. I’ve always been cool-headed under pressure. I’m able to stay calm, assess the damage, and take decisive action.
I know I wouldn’t be as happy doing something else. But I always have to consider my family. Before Linnea came, I was seriously thinking about finding a different job. My schedule made it so hard to find good childcare, and I couldn’t keep relying on my sister. But with Linnea, everything seemed to fall into place.
My pager beeps again, but it’s just a question about a patient. I walk over to an empty nurse’s station and use the phone to call downstairs and answer.
Kyle, the on-call anesthesiologist, wanders over to the station. “How’s the appendectomy doing?”
“Acceptable,” I say. “I discharged him.”
“I wasn’t happy with his oxygen levels,” he says. “I included that in my notes to the attending. I hope he gets that sleep apnea under control, or we’ll have him back in here before too long.”
“Yeah.” My phone buzzes again. It’s probably Linnea. “Just a sec, Kyle, I need to check this.”
Linnea: We’re downstairs. Can you still get away for lunch?
Me: Yep. Meet you in the main lobby.
I pocket my phone. “I’m heading downstairs for lunch. My daughter is here.”
“Nice,” he says. “Who’s bringing her? Your sister?”
“No, Linnea,” I say. “Her nanny.”
He nods. “I’m heading that way too. I’ll ride down with you.”
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