by West, Harper
I’d decided to take that job with Daisy, co-operating Blue Bubbles, which has become wildly popular thanks to some savvy social media marketing and celebrity endorsements. We’re thinking of expanding to cosmetics and skin care products in the future. The sky is the limit.
The best part though is that working with Blue Bubbles has allowed me to be rather flexible with my time and I’m able to pursue my true passion, my business class at the community college. I’ve decided that I love educating women in this field and giving the tools and the knowledge that they need to succeed.
Life is promising right now.
And speaking of promises…
“Ready?” Patty asks me, smoothing her rose pink bridesmaid’s dress. She takes Oliver’s little hand and straightens his suit.
I adjust my veil and look myself over in the mirror.
“Yes," I said resolutely.
Our wedding ceremony obviously isn’t a legal one. It’s purely symbolic. But it feels like something that the three of us need to do to cement our union.
My parents aren’t here. My mother still can’t wrap her mind around this relationship. And, obviously, Logan has no family attending. But Tyler’s parents flew in from Costa Rica and his sister is here with her whole family. And we have friends and coworkers who we want to include in the festivities.
We've decided to get married on the beach out on Long Island on a beautiful sunny day in late June. Our little altar is set up on the shore, and we've got flower petals strewn across a patch in the sand.
A guitarist friend of Tyler’s plays some light, pretty music as Patty and Oliver walk down the aisle. Then he gracefully changes to a more traditional wedding march.
And then it’s my turn.
From across the aisle, I see Logan and Tyler standing at the other side in their grey suits, looking as handsome as I've ever seen them. Logan is clean-shaven, and his hair is slicked back. Tyler has been growing his ‘dad beard,' and his hair is actually pretty long now.
They look beautiful. I want to break out into a full run to meet them at the altar, but I decide to take my time.
When I finally get there and am standing between the two men I love, we face the officiant, and they take my hands. I barely hear any of the readings, the speakers, or the music. I just concentrate on my guys and listen as they say, “I do.”
“Ivy Danielle Lawrence,” the officiant says, “Do you take these men to be your husbands? To love and to cherish? For richer or poorer? In sickness and in health? Until death do you part?”
“I do," I announce to the crowd. I can't help my smile. Logan's grin practically reaches his ears, and Tyler wipes a stray tear from his eyes.
“You may now kiss.”
Logan turns to me first, and his kiss is sweet and loving, nothing too inappropriate or sexual, but it sends shivers through my body nonetheless. When Logan and I part, Tyler takes me and gives me a fiery kiss complete with a movie-star dip that has me laughing into his mouth, loving every second of his playful antics.
The crowd claps and cheers as we're pronounced married in the eyes of everyone here. Patty leads Oliver up to the altar, and he runs into my arms. I lift him up so that he can join in our celebration.
“I love you,” I tell them. All of them. “I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” Tyler says, taking Oliver and kissing his little forehead.
“I love you,” Logan echoes. He takes my hand in his and leads our whole family down the aisle. “And I can’t wait to start our life together.”
“Neither can I.”
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Chapter 1
Kinsley
“You know I hate you,” I said.
It's my former roommate, Marta, on the phone telling me how fabulous things are in Florida. It's freezing in my apartment, and I almost work up a hate-on for her, but I can't. I love her and wish her well even if it meant that I now carried the whole share of the rent.
“Dump that dump and come to the land of sun and fun.”
I snorted. "I would if I have the price of a bus ticket. As it is, I spent the last of my cash on the rent." I can imagine Marta sticking her tongue out at me. She did feel bad for leaving me with the bills, but she got a great job as a nanny for some rich guy, and she couldn't pass it up.
“Hey, there is a reason I called.”
“Give.”
“My boss knows this guy in our, I mean your town that needs a nanny. Interested?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I kinda like my status as a lady of leisure with her unemployment about to run out.”
“Kinsley,” she scolded.
I rolled my eyes. It was too easy to yank my friend’s chain. “Of course, I’m interested.”
“Good, because the guy is expecting you at his house in an hour.”
“What!”
“Look, the guy is kinda desperate. His wife died a year ago, and his last nanny got accepted at some fancy school off a waitlist for fall admission and had to go or lose her spot. And he’s very picky and complained to my employer how there aren’t any trustworthy nannies. And my employer asked me if I could recommend anyone, and having assured them both you aren’t an ax murder—”
“Yeah, the weight of the swing did a number on my shoulder. Had to give that up.”
“Stop yanking my chain, Kinsley, and get your butt in gear. You’ve got the job if you just show up.”
Like I wouldn’t. And she knew that.
“Fine, give me the address.”
Marta gave me the Park Avenue address, and I nearly swooned. Holy hell, this man must have buckets of money, because, you know Park Avenue. And then cursed. "Marta, there is no way I can it make from Queens to Park Avenue in an hour." It's only fourteen miles, which is nothing from the rural town I came from in Connecticut, but here with New York traffic, it might as well be on the other side do the moon.
“Relax. I’m flush. I’ll send you an Uber.”
“Now, you shouldn’t.” Yes, she should.
“Shut up, bitch, and make yourself presentable.”
“I am presentable.”
“Not until you brush your teeth, and man, I catch a whiff from here.”
I stuck out my tongue from habit, though she can’t see me.
“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” said Marta. “Talk to you later.”
Marta ended the called, and I reluctantly peeled my blankets off me and shivered. It was an unseasonal cold snap after a brutal New York City Indian summer wormed its way into my apartment. The heat is not on yet because what decent slumlord turned on the heat before November?
The morning chill bites me as I finally crawl out of bed and make my way to the bathroom with black-and-white hexagon tiles on the floor and a chipped and rust pedestal sink. When I first got here, I tried everything to remove the stains with mixed results only to have the stains return with a vengeance within two weeks. The sink was as much as a lost cause as my writing career. But hey, I'm the queen of lost causes, sad sack boyfriends with puppy dog eyes, hopeless dreams.
This is far from the dream I’d envisioned when I arrived in New York. Inside my gut, I burned to a writer and I figured to do I should be where the publishers are. I’d surround myself with culture and storied characters.
A lot of good it’s done. I’ve never been able to even get my foot in the door of any of the publishing houses, nor have I landed so much as an interview for any of the dozens of resumes I’ve turned in for journalism positions. Who knew editors looked for writers with degrees in journalism and summer internships in a newspaper.
Well, I do have one interview today- a nanny job. Go, me.
I could have stayed back in Connecticut and babysat. This is not what I want to be doing, but with the State of New York about to cut me off unemployment be
nefits I needed this job.
I turn the water on. It’s hot. At least I have that to be thankful for. Shimmying out of my pajamas, I carefully step in, letting it run down my shoulders first. My body relaxes and tingles from the comfort of the warmth as it streams across my collarbone and between my breasts, down my stomach. I lean my head back and feel it soaking through my dark hair to my scalp. As my hair grows heavy and wet, my natural curls straighten, making it feel longer. When it’s wet, it reaches all the way down and sticks to the small of my back, much longer than when it is dry and bouncy.
I think about my sister, Kaitlyn, back home. I used to feel sorry for her. She settled on being a cosmetologist when she could have been so much more. The day before I left for New York, she called me into her salon and cleaned up my eyebrows, then cut my hair. Now I wish I had time to bop to her shop in Connecticut and have her work on me again. As I shampoo my hair and lather my body, I feel guilty about the way I'd judged her. She truly loves what she does, and she's doing it. Who was I to decide she could do better, especially now as I'm getting ready to interview for a job I don't even want?
I rinse myself off and linger under the water another minute, dreading stepping back out into the cold. When I finally do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm flushed from the heat of the water, and I look tired. I don't feel tired though. Maybe it's just another perk of life in the big city.
I dry off and wring my hair out with the towel. I can’t dry it with the blow dryer today. I don’t have time to twist the brush through every curl to prevent myself from looking like a poodle or a ball of dryer lint when it finishes. Instead, It’ll have to air dry on my way to my interview. I hope it dries fully. I’ve read that wet hair at an interview looks unprofessional. I knew better than to linger under my warm blankets this morning.
Already, I’ve messed this up.
I throw on my make up and get dressed in the clothes I picked out last night- a white, button-up blouse, a mint green cardigan, and black leggings with my favorite pair of boots. I hope it doesn’t seem too informal, but I was afraid of overdressing for a childcare position. I don’t want the parents to think I’m unwilling to get dirty or play with the children. At that thought, I second-guess the white blouse but decide I have no time to make changes. I gather my bag and my jacket and head out the door to watch for my Uber, who texts just as the door shuts to let me know he’s arrived.
His car smells like cherries and vanilla with an acrid undertone. I soon notice a puff of white cloud rising from the front seat, though, and realize why. He’s vaping. I crack the window slightly, hoping not to breathe in any more of the second-hand chemicals, and also hoping he will get the hint and stop, but he doesn’t.
This is what I hate about New York. Everyone here has been so rude. It's not like back home where everyone does their best to make sure you're comfortable and enjoying yourself. Here, it's dog-eat-dog. I'm homesick, but not yet ready to give up. I look down at my phone and open my Google Doc app to read over a piece I've been working on. It's very good. I'm very proud of it, but I've been hesitant to show it to anyone the other writers in my critique group. Every time I think I've done well, someone finds something to criticize, and it tears me down. I read through it again to see if I can find any flaws on my own this time and pursed my lips at the little nits in the prose. Gawd, you would think I didn't know how to spell. The drive into the city is New York City normal, meaning knots of traffic and slowdowns. My hand bounces nervously my knee as I watch the landscape blur outside my window. When we cross the bridge onto the island, I check my phone to see I have fifteen minutes tops to get to Park Avenue. I hoped this guy wasn't a stickler on time because we might not make it.
But this Uber guy is a reckless as any NYC cabbie, and as soon as we hit the island proper, he careens through the traffic-clogged streets like a roller-coaster. Finally with only minutes to spare he pulled onto Park Avenue. The majestic buildings of the priciest real estate on New York rose on either side, and the air seems more rarified, more elevated than just a block prior. I can imagine the money oozing out of the buildings of the businesses and the families that called this street home. It makes me want to hurt.
This is not my life and never would be. The small Connecticut town where I grew up was the home of the rich and even some famous, but they wanted it to appear so white bread Americana they'd fight the zoning of a big box store, or buildings higher than two stories. I was caught in a fishbowl of their design, and I didn't even get to go to school with their children because they sent them to expensive boarding schools.
I wondered why this guy didn’t do the same?
He pulled up in front of a white granite highrise that stretched into the sky. I thank my driver and get out, making my way to the front steps. Just before I get there, another girl walks out, blushing and looks me up and down. She’s dressed like me in everyday casual clothes, not designer duds of the people I see on the street.
“Interviewing?” she asks.
“Yes,” I nod. “You?”
She nodded and smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Maybe,” I said. She bounced away with her dark ponytail swinging, and I faced the building’s doorman.
“Kinsley Wilson. I’m here to see, um--” With a flush of embarrassment I realized I didn’t know the name of the man I’m here to see.
“Yes, Miss Wilson. Mr. Fischer left word. It’s the tenth floor.”
Butterflies burst in my stomach. I was going into a rich man’s house to work for him and take care of his kids, and I have no idea what I was getting myself into. Who was this guy? Would he think I was good enough to care for his children? Marta said he was picky. Would he find fault with me?
“What apartment on the tenth floor?” I asked.
He gave a rueful smile.
“Just the tenth floor, Miss.” He smiled at me. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”
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About Harper West
Harper West is a Cali girl through and through, and she’s hella addicted to iced tea. She loves some theme park time, visiting the ocean and the mountains in the same day, and spending time with her kitties as she explores this writing journey.
When she’s not enjoying everything Cali has to offer, she can be found on social media or sitting in front of a fire on a rainy day, staring at the mountains. Sign up for her newsletter to stay up to date on all of her journeys and new books!
