“Oh, poor sweetie,” Megan says. “Noah’s his dad’s mini-me, which means he’s stoic and grumpy.”
I laugh and Megan laughs along with me. We glance over as Ms. Peterson opens the door.
One by one, the first graders come out. Megan is right, most of them run, hop, or skip to their parent. There’s a pause, and a little dark-haired boy comes out. He’s wearing a blue t-shirt and his green backpack looks enormous on him.
“Hey, kiddo,” Megan says.
Noah shuffles over to her, and he does look a little sullen. He leans against her and she gives him a hug.
Charlotte is a few seconds behind him. She comes out with her eyes locked on the ground, her back stiff and straight. I always get a pang of sadness when she comes out of the classroom. I wish she didn’t struggle so much.
“Hi, Bug,” I say softly and crouch down. She slips her arms around my neck and I snuggle her for a long moment, feeling her relax. I don’t ask her if she’s okay anymore. It’s always on the tip of my tongue, but I know if there’s something bothering her, she won’t tell me about it yet. I have to give her a little time.
I stand and smooth her hair down.
“Hey, what do you think about bringing Charlotte over for a playdate?” Megan asks.
I get a little ping of excitement at the idea. Maybe this would help Charlotte make a friend. That would be so amazing. I glance down at her. “What do you think? Would you like to go have a playdate at Noah’s house?”
She tucks her hand in mine, but her grip stays light. It takes her a second to respond, but I can tell this isn’t making her nervous; if it was, she’d be holding onto me with her death grip. She meets my eyes and nods.
It’s such a little thing, but I’m flooded with happiness. “Okay, good. Yeah, we’d love to.”
“If you don’t mind being spontaneous, and the very high possibility of a messy house, you guys could come over now,” she says. “If you don’t have other plans, obviously.”
“Sure,” I say. “We don’t have any plans today.”
“Awesome. We live just up the street,” Megan says with a smile.
Megan’s house is lovely. It’s set back from the street with a trim front yard. Hanging baskets spill dark green ivy near the door. Inside is small, but cozy. The front area has a living room with a couch facing a TV, and a fireplace on the side wall. Further in is a kitchen with pretty white cabinets and yellow walls. She sets her things down on the kitchen table and asks Charlotte and Noah what they want for a snack.
While she busies herself in the kitchen, I coax Charlotte into a chair at the table. Noah sits across from her, but he doesn’t say anything. A few minutes later, Megan brings over a plate of apple slices and a bowl of pretzels.
“Can I make you some coffee or something?” Megan asks once the kids are busy eating.
“Tea would be nice, thanks.”
She makes us both a mug of tea, and when the kids are finished snacking, Noah asks Charlotte if she wants to go play. To my relief, Charlotte nods—she even smiles—and follows him down the hallway.
“Wow,” Megan says. “That was easy.”
“Yeah it was,” I say. “This is so nice. Charlotte has a hard time making friends.”
“Noah does too,” she says. “I worry about him, but my husband always assures me he’ll be fine. James was the same way when he was little, and he turned out okay. He’s still a serious guy, but I was able to teach him how to smile, at least.”
I laugh, a vision of breezy, colorful Megan with a stiff and stoic husband flashing through my mind. “Sounds like you complement each other.”
“We do.” She takes sip of her tea. “You know, it’s surprising to me that you’re Charlotte’s nanny.”
“Why?”
“You seem closer to her than that,” she says. “She was in Noah’s class last year, and there were a few different girls who picked her up. I could tell they were nannies. They acted like babysitters. But I really thought you might be her mom. I wondered if maybe you worked before and your schedule changed or something.”
“Well, I’m more than her nanny,” I say. “I’m her aunt. She’s my sister’s daughter. But my sister was killed in a car accident when Charlotte was a baby.”
“Oh my god,” Megan says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, suddenly thinking about Caleb. About how hard it must have been to lose his wife. It reminds me that I’m just his wife’s little sister—and how ridiculous this crush really is. “It was hard. But Charlotte’s dad is an amazing father, so that helps.”
“That’s good,” she says.
She asks a little more about me, so I tell her that I play piano, and about getting my music degree. When she asks about becoming a nanny, I find myself spilling the whole story: how my parents made the decision without me, and probably pushed Caleb into it too. But also how great it’s been since I moved out here—how much I love what I’m doing now.
“You’re so good with her,” Megan says. “You’re always so gentle.”
“I was a lot like her,” I say. “I understand what she feels like, I guess.”
Megan smiles. “She’s lucky to have you. Definitely have kids someday. You’re a natural.”
“Thanks,” I say with a laugh. “I’m not really in a position where that’s going to happen any time soon. But I’d love to.”
Megan pauses and lifts her eyebrows. “Do I hear laughing?”
The sound of Charlotte’s giggle mingled with Noah’s laughter drifts down the hall. “I think you do. It sounds like they’re having fun.”
“Okay, it’s official,” Megan says. “I’m adopting you. You’re nice, easy to talk to, you don’t seem to be judging my messy house, and our kids are having fun. We have to do this again.”
“I would love that,” I say. “How about we have you over next time?”
“Done,” she says. “Anytime. Just let me know.”
I chat with Megan for a little while longer, then round up Charlotte to go home. She’s reluctant to leave, and Noah is reluctant to let her go, which makes both Megan and me almost squeal with glee. We promise both kids they’ll see each other at school tomorrow, and we’ll have another playdate very soon.
Caleb’s car is already in the driveway when we walk up to the house. I check my phone, worried he might have texted to see where we are, but I don’t have any messages. We go inside and I hear Caleb talking. I pause just inside the door while Charlotte takes her shoes off.
“Sure, that sounds great,” Caleb says. He must be on the phone. “I’m looking forward to it… All right, perfect. I’ll see you soon.”
I hesitate, even after Charlotte runs in to find him. Who was he talking to? It sounded like he was making plans. That couldn’t have been a date, could it? There was something in his voice that makes me wonder—a note of affection, maybe?
“There’s my favorite girl!”
What am I thinking? It’s none of my business. He could have been talking to Kendra, or his dad. And even if he was making plans with a woman, it doesn’t have anything to do with me. I certainly don’t have the right to an opinion on what he does in his free time—or who he spends it with. He’s a single adult—there’s nothing wrong with him dating.
Pushing aside the unease in my tummy, I head to the kitchen to see what he wants to do for dinner.
9
Caleb
Coming off an overnight shift usually leaves me in one of two states—either dead tired and wishing I could sleep for a week, or so wide awake I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again.
Today is the latter.
That’s a good thing, as long as I can hold out until at least Charlotte’s bedtime before I crash. I have to be at the hospital at seven tomorrow morning, so the best thing for me to do is stay awake until tonight. The way I’m feeling, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem, provided I stay busy.
I park in the driveway and head for the front door. Charlotte
is still at school, and I’m not sure if Linnea is home. I find myself hoping she’s here, and just as quickly squashing that hope down. Hard as I try to bury my attraction to her, it rears its ugly head at just the thought of seeing her. And the promise of a few hours alone with her before it’s time to pick up Charlotte from school is tempting in all kinds of ways. That surge of temptation almost makes me turn around and go back to my car.
But then I hear it. Music. Is that Linnea playing?
I’ve heard her play a little, but never like this. Very carefully, I slip my key in the lock and open the front door—slow, so I don’t disturb her. I know she needs to practice and I’d hate to break her concentration.
That’s what I tell myself, at least. Really, I just don’t want her to stop playing.
I stand just inside the front door and quietly shut it. From the entryway, I can see her sitting at her piano. Her back is to me, and she doesn’t pause or look over her shoulder. I don’t think she heard me come in.
Her hands caress the keys with such fluid dexterity, it’s mesmerizing to watch. She sways to the rhythm of her song, as if the music fills her body. Her head tilts, leans to one side, then the other. Hands stretch out to reach the keys at each end.
I don’t recognize the piece, but the music is breathtaking. Intense and dramatic. She hits the keys with authority, as if she has no doubt about which notes to play. I’ve never seen this side of her. She’s sweet and soft-spoken, but this music is powerful and passionate. Her whole body moves as music fills the air, and I stare at her, captivated.
The song winds down and she stops, her hands still resting lightly on the keys.
“Wow,” I say. “That was amazing.”
She gasps and turns around. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“It’s okay.” She glances down, and tucks her hair behind her ear. “I just didn’t realize someone was listening.”
“It was absolutely beautiful.” Just like you.
Her eyes lift to meet mine. “Thank you.” She tucks her hair again, on the same side, although it didn’t need it. “Sorry, I knew you’d be home this morning, but I wasn’t paying attention to the time.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad I got to hear you play.” I’ve got heat and tension growing where they shouldn’t, so I break eye contact and walk toward the kitchen. I hear her following me. “So, what are you up to today?”
“Well… actually…”
I pause and glance back at her. She’s standing just outside the kitchen, where the carpet meets hardwood, plucking at her hair like she’s nervous.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
A knot of dread forms in the pit of my stomach. I bet she has an audition. I bet she’s trying to figure out how to tell me she’s going to leave.
I swallow hard, alarmed at the rush of emotion that thought elicits. I know it’s coming at some point, but I don’t want it to be now. Charlotte is going to be devastated.
Let’s not talk about how I’m going to feel.
“Yes, everything is fine.” She takes a deep breath, like she needs it to be brave enough to talk, and then the words come out fast, in a rush. “I have an appointment to get a tattoo and I’m kind of scared and I was wondering if you’d come with me.”
I blink at her. What did she just say? I didn’t hear audition or symphony. I think she just said tattoo.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have asked you. It’s fine. I can go by myself. I planned on it anyway.”
“No,” I say, hurrying to get the word out. “No, that just wasn’t what I thought you were going to say. When’s your appointment? I’d love to come with you.”
Her face brightens. “It’s, well, it’s in an hour.”
“Great,” I say. “I need something to keep me awake until tonight anyway.”
The tattoo shop is on Roosevelt in a strip-mall style building. There isn’t any parking out front, so we circle the block and find a spot. It’s a short walk, so we get out and head down the sidewalk.
“Is this, um…” I falter, because as far as I know, Linnea doesn’t have any tattoos. I’ve seen her in a swimsuit, so if she does, they must be… well-hidden. “Is this your first tattoo?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I think that’s why I’m so nervous.”
“What made you decide to get one?”
“Well, I’ve thought about it for a long time,” she says. “I just think they can be really beautiful. It’s art you wear on your body, you know?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have any?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “I’ve thought about it a few times. I might get something that represents Charlotte someday.”
“That would be so sweet,” she says.
“How did you find the shop?” I ask, suddenly wondering if she’s done any research. Is this place going to be clean?
“Oh, Mia knows the artist,” she says.
“Mia?” I ask. “Alex’s Mia? How does she know a tattoo artist?”
“He’s someone she grew up with,” she says. “They went to school together or something. I was talking with her and Kendra and told them I was thinking about doing this, so Mia gave me his number.”
“Do you know what you’re going to get?”
“Yep,” she says. “I already met with him last week. He’s going to have some designs for me to choose from today, but it will be a treble clef and some music notes.”
“That’s perfect,” I say.
“Yeah, I think so,” she says.
Before I can ask her where she’s planning to get her tattoo, we’re at the shop. I open the door for her and we both go inside.
There’s a large L-shaped front counter with every kind of piercing jewelry imaginable displayed in the glass case. I’m actually not sure where some of them are designed to go. A woman with tattoos covering most of her arms and several piercings in her face greets us.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“I have an appointment with Dex,” Linnea says.
“Great, I’ll tell him you’re here,” she says.
Linnea fiddles with her hair and I glance around at the samples on the walls. There are posters and prints with hundreds of different tattoo designs.
“Hey, Linnea, good to see you again.”
The guy who approaches is tall, with thickly muscled arms covered in ink. He’s wearing a faded gray t-shirt and jeans, and I have no doubt women find this guy attractive. Dark hair. Blue eyes. Square jaw covered in rough stubble.
Linnea holds her hand out and he takes it gently. “Nice to see you too,” she says.
“So are you ready for this?” he asks.
“I think so.”
“You’re going to do great,” he says, flashing her a smile.
Linnea nibbles her bottom lip.
I can’t decide if I appreciate his friendly demeanor—it’s obvious he cares about making her feel comfortable—or if I’m annoyed at the way she’s looking at him.
“So, you brought someone?” Dex asks.
“Yeah, I hope that’s okay,” she says. “This is Caleb.”
“Yeah, it’s fine,” he says. “You can both come on back.”
He leads us behind the front counter and past several tattoo stations where artists are busy working on clients. One has a woman stretched out on a table, lying face down. He’s working on a design on the back of her calf. Another has a man seated in a chair while he tattoos something on his forearm. That artist has a long silver beard that hangs down to his beer belly. Why couldn’t Linnea have picked that guy to do her tattoo?
Dex’s station is at the back of the shop. It’s full of posters and stickers, most of them black. Lots of skulls. There’s a colorful sign near a few coat hooks that says I believe in unicorns. I’m not sure what to think about that one.
He pulls up a stool and gestures for me to sit, then has Linnea sit in the chair. He brings out s
ome drawings with several variations on the music theme.
“Okay, here’s what I came up with,” he says, showing the drawings to Linnea. “What do you think? Any of these what you were hoping for?”
“That one,” she says without hesitation, pointing to a drawing of a treble clef with a swirl of music notes. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“Awesome,” he says. “Any changes, or just like this?”
“Just like that,” she says.
“Great. Give me just a second and I’ll get the stencil ready.”
He goes to a flat area, almost like a desk, on one side of his station. Linnea bites her lip again and twists her hands in her lap.
“Nervous?” I ask.
She nods. “A little.”
I’m close enough to touch her, so I reach out and squeeze her hand. “You’ll be fine.”
Before I take my hand away, she squeezes mine back. “Thanks for coming.”
“Okay, Linnea, we’re going to try this on,” Dex says. “Is this your boyfriend, or…?”
“Oh, um… no,” she says, her face flushing. “But it’s okay if he stays. I’ll just turn.”
I’m a little stunned at hearing the word boyfriend, and before I can say anything, he drops a fucking bomb.
“Cool, then go ahead and take off your shirt and bra and we’ll make sure of the placement.”
My eyes almost bug out of my head and it’s all I can do to keep from choking. Take off her what, now?
She stands up and turns her back to me, then lifts her shirt over her head. I keep my eyes directly on the back wall.
Okay, so I peek. Once. Fine, twice. I’m only human.
“You can just hold your shirt up to keep your boobs covered,” Dex says and I clench my jaw when he says boobs. “Caleb, can you give her a hand with her bra? Or I can in a second.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Is he kidding? Has he seen her? But hell no, this dude is not taking her bra off. “Yeah, sure.”
She’s holding her shirt over her chest and gives me a quick glance over her shoulder before turning away again. My eyes lock on the clasp of her pale pink bra and I swallow hard.
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