All I want is to be home, check on Andy, and go to bed.
I yank off my tie and set my bag by the door.
When I enter the main area, my attention drags to the kitchen.
Jesus.
There’s paint everywhere. The island, the counter…the floor.
I take a step to the side, nearly missing planting a sock foot in a puddle of purple paint.
This was a mistake.
Her first day here and she’s already turning things upside down.
I’m used to order. This is chaos.
It was a deranged impulse to invite Kat to be my nanny, a rogue moment of insanity and desperation after watching her with my kid for one evening.
I head upstairs and start toward my son’s cracked door. The strip of light broadens as I push it open and peer inside.
I’ll tell her it was a mistake, pay her for the week and—
He’s tucked in, stuffed animals nestled around him. His soft breathing is even and steady. He appears to be clean. On his nightstand is a row of pots painted every color imaginable.
One is painted with the name Andy. Another says Friends. Another Bea.
Around the names are stars and hearts, carefully inscribed to match the lettering.
Everything else in the room looks normal.
So why does it feel as if there’s suddenly oxygen when I’ve been struggling to breathe for ages?
I rub absently at a spot between my ribs as I go back downstairs.
Kat is asleep on the couch.
Her hair splays over the pillow. Instead of Andy’s stuffed animals, a closed notebook computer is clutched to her chest.
Despite the day’s hurdles, having her here allowed me to work late. It’s the first time I’ve done that in a long time.
I lift the computer and set it carefully on the coffee table, then tuck a blanket around her before heading to the kitchen to clean up.
“What time is it?” Kat’s head pokes up over the back of the sofa. She shoves at her hair, yawning sleepily.
“Late. You guys forging a Jackson Pollocks in here?”
“Hmm?” She looks around.
“Never mind. What was dinner?”
She rises from the couch, stretching both hands over her head. “Andy had French fries and deli meat and celery.”
Three food groups. Call it a win.
“And you?”
“I didn’t eat.”
I head for the fridge and start pulling out food.
Kat crosses the room and settles on a stool at the breakfast bar to watch. “Thank you for the LaCroix.”
“No problem.” I pass her one, plus a glass, without breaking stride.
She pops it open, her T-shirt slipping off one shoulder as she takes a drink straight from the can. “How was the rest of your day?”
I take out a cutting board and a knife.
“Fine.”
“That doesn’t look like a ‘fine’ face.”
Thirty seconds ago, she was asleep. Now, she’s alert and parsing the monosyllabic answers that have gotten me through years of department meetings and personal conversations.
There’s no quick answer to her implied question, but I sense she’s not going to drop it without getting something out of me.
“Sometimes I wonder why I picked this job.”
“Why did you?”
I pull supplies for sandwiches from the fridge. “Because I always loved learning new things. Seeing students make those connections is the best feeling in the world.” I think back to my own time as a student. “History felt like a particular gift. Patterns repeat themselves. We like to think we’re all original, struggling with unique problems, but we mine the past and realize everything has happened before.”
She cocks her head. “So you’re a fan of sequels?”
“Depends on the sequel.”
Kat rests her elbows on the bar, leaning in. “Star Wars?”
“Solid. Five and six, not two and three.”
“Mean Girls.”
“Never saw it.”
“It was bad. The Godfather?”
I snort. “Obviously.”
I slice two pieces off a loaf of bread, putting mustard on one. I add a few pieces of deli turkey, plus some cheddar cheese and lettuce.
“What’s with the art class?” I ask.
“Bea from preschool ghosted him because he broke her flowerpot. So we made a replacement to win her back.”
“You’re getting him a girlfriend.”
“It’s possible to have girls who are friends.”
I close the sandwich and slice it twice along the diagonal, the way Andy likes it.
“I know. The dance moms keep inviting me to book club.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Her snort makes me glance up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re irresistible to them. Like a Macy’s holiday sale. Good job, smart, handsome.”
She ticks off her fingers and I narrowly avoid slicing off one of my own.
“A lot of women—and men for that matter—would line up to date you.”
The way she says it makes me stare a beat too long.
Coming home to a mess, a happy sleeping kid, and an attractive woman responsible for both can fuck with your head.
The sandwich is finished but I’m not ready for her to stop talking. I grab celery from the fridge and slice some up to serve on the side.
“They’d be wasting their time. I don’t date.”
“So you avoid anyone who might be physically or emotionally attractive to you and, what. Mainline porn?”
I cough, reaching for my collar only to find my tie already missing.
“It’s okay, Daniel. Everyone does it. I bet if I flip open that computer”—she nods to my bag in the corner—“I’m finding a browser history of busty amateurs or voyeuristic lesbians.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave it on there,” I counter.
She folds her arms, smiling as if she’s won a prize I didn’t realize we were competing for.
I slide the sandwich across the bar to her.
“Thanks. I forget to eat way too often.” Her gaze flicks between us. “Aren’t you eating?”
“I grabbed something on campus earlier.”
She tosses me a lopsided smile before taking a bite.
A little sound of pleasure escapes her. “This is really good.”
“I’m still waiting on my Michelin star.”
But the truth is, I enjoy watching her eat.
The world is full of reminders where I’m deficient. I like being enough for another person in this small way.
I grab a second LaCroix from the fridge, reaching for her unused glass and pouring into it before I take a sip.
Not bad.
“So, for real,” she starts once she’s finished one of the triangles of sandwich. “Why don’t you date?”
“I don’t want to miss Andy’s life. I want to give him everything.”
“You’re afraid of failing him.”
Some days, I think I already have.
“When my wife was in hospital, it was hard on him.”
Kat finishes the first half of her sandwich. “How about on you?”
It’s an obvious question, but one I don’t spend any time asking myself.
“I can take it. But Andy’s going to grow up without a mom. No kid should have to do that.”