Page 9

CALLIOPE

W help, I was officially a nanny. The ink on the contract had dried, and now I headed to my parent's house for a family dinner with Juno and PJ. I armed myself with what I hoped was a believable lie about being hired as part of the Colorado Blizzards' social media team.

Did my parents love me? Yes. Did they want me to be happy? Yes. Would they support me becoming a nanny? Probably not. They knew me well enough that accepting this position would not have been my first choice. Doesn’t every parent want their kids to get their first choice?

When I told my father what had happened with Zander, it took hours of me begging him to stay out of it. He had mutual connections with some executives with whom I had completed my internship, and as any overprotective dad would do, he wanted to solve my problems.

He probably would have gotten the decision reversed and maybe even had Zander fired.

But something strange happened as I watched what I’d thought were my dreams go up in smoke.

I’d realized that it wasn’t what I wanted after all.

If only that realization had come with the blueprint plans of what I did want to do, then I’d be golden.

When I arrived at our quiet neighborhood in Concord, MA, I noticed a ton of activity at the top of the street.

One of the homes was undergoing a major remodel.

It had recently been for sale and must have changed hands.

Knowing the family who lived there before, it was a beautiful home with lots of potential, but very few people would love the house “as is.”

I pulled into our circular driveway, parking behind Juno’s BMW as PJ’s Jeep stopped short behind my hand-me-down Lexus.

“Hey,” I called him quickly as we rushed towards the house. We were both late, and while my mother loved and tolerated most of our mistakes, punctuality was a non-starter.

“Did you get stuck in traffic because of that accident?” PJ asked, already prepping some bullshit excuse and feeling out if I would help him in his lie to Mom.

“That’s not going to work this time. And no, I’m not lying about an accident. Remember how that worked out last time?” Our mother had deemed the accident as not a valid reason for being late, reminding us we should plan for all eventualities.

And once she’d found out that we made it up?

Let’s say the woman could hold a grudge.

PJ and I were made to wait for dinner until everyone else finished.

By then, the food was cold, and we’d had to endure more than a few comments on the value of punctuality.

After eating our dinner cold, we earned dishwashing duty while Juno propped her feet up and watched.

Dad opened the door and gestured for both of us to hurry. “Lucky you, your mother just got a call from her editor. She has no idea you guys are late,” he said as he shooed us into the kitchen.

My mother was a New York Times bestselling author of twelve women’s fiction novels but also happened to write steamy dark romances under a pen name. She had kept that part of her writing career silent for years, with only her editor and publisher knowing that Diana Douglas was also D.D. Gray.

Monica and I had been caught up reading her dark mafia series, a BookTok and BookStagram sensation, not knowing that it was my mother’s brain creating these fucked up yet amazingly addictive storylines.

Finding out the books were the result of my mother’s fantasies wasn’t as bad as when I coaxed their cat Myrtle out from under my parent’s bed, only to find bondage hooks.

I wanted my parents to be healthy and happy, but I didn’t need to know those details.

“What’s this one?” PJ asked about the book nervously. Only a small circle of friends knew about my mother’s pen name, and while it was more lucrative than her women’s fiction sales, we worried that it could be a source of scorn.

“This one is safe for work,” Dad winked.

We gathered around the island and waited for Mom while Dad prepped steaks for the grill. Dad put on his apron, and we all stared at him, horrified. The apron said, My meat, your mouth, no bones about it.

“Dad! Come on, that’s not for family night,” Juno cried out, unable to hide her disgust.

Dad laughed. “Sorry, kids, this was a gift from your Gram. If I had to open it with a straight face as she described my ‘Mouth-watering meat’ when we invited her over with the Grants for a barbecue last week, you all could handle me wearing it.”

“For real?” I asked. None of us could ever get a read on whether Gram knew her comments were inappropriate or if she was overly literal.

“Yup,” Dad answered with a loud pop of the P.

“Hey, I noticed some activity at the Collins’s old house. Do you know who bought it?” I asked.

“Rumor has it, a pitcher from the Minutemen is moving in with his family. They’re fully remodeling it, though. The Collins had an interesting taste in home decor,” Dad answered.

Hmmm, interesting. What were the odds that Sam and Kelsey had bought a house down the street from my parents? That could make hiding my nanny position a little trickier.

I sat quietly and slipped my phone from my back pocket, texting Monica while my family gossiped about the new neighbors.

Me: Hey, Mon, quick question.

Monica was always on her phone; her clients relied on her nearly twenty-four hours a day, which meant she was terrible at creating boundaries for herself. Her reply was almost instant.

Monica: What’s up?

Me: I’m at my parents' house for dinner. Do you remember the house where the Collins family lived?

Monica: Yeah, great house, but a little odd.

Me: Rumor has it that a baseball pitcher is renovating it before moving in. What are the odds that I now know this pitcher?

Monica: Oooh, yeah. I can check the address, but they recently closed on a house in Concord. Shit, I never thought about that.

“Who are you texting?” PJ asked.

“Monica, I was just checking to see if one of her clients bought the Collins’ house,” I grimaced at both my siblings. Both of them immediately understood the web I’d found myself in, and if Sam and Kelsey were going to be my parents’ neighbors, I couldn’t say I was working for the Blizzards.

“Looks like the world is smaller than I thought it was,” I said with a shrug.

“How is Monica?” PJ attempted to play off his question, but anyone who’d watched either of them over the years knew that there was more to PJ’s seemingly innocent question.

“Why don’t you reach out and ask her?” Juno piped in, knowing PJ preferred to watch her from afar.

Something had happened between them, and since then, they’d done this awkward dance, avoiding each other.

Before then, they had been almost as close as she and I were.

Monica would have been invited to join every family dinner in years past but stopped accepting invitations if she knew PJ would be there.

“Hey, everyone, sorry to hold you up,” Mom breezed into the kitchen in time for PJ to get out of answering Juno’s question. “I see your father has brought out Gram’s host gift!”

“Horrifying,” Juno said as we all lined up to hug and kiss our mother.

Mom then filled us in on her discussion with her editor.

She was set to release her next mainstream novel the following Spring, with final edits due soon.

She always felt the most insecure about her work during this part of the publishing process.

In some rounds of editing, she’d been forced to cut some of her favorite scenes.

Thankfully, Monica’s text arrived before I lied to my family.

Monica: Yep. They’ll be neighbors.

I took a screenshot of the text conversation and immediately sent it to our sibling group chat.

Me to ‘Sibs’: I guess I’ve got no choice but to be honest about my new career.

Juno: Yikes.

PJ: Best to call it a job.

Juno: And frame it as a way to get back in the game…

PJ: Find your path, something that makes it seem like a necessary detour

Were my parents supportive? Yes. But would this be a choice they’d want for me?

Hell no. It was precisely why they’d committed to supporting all of us financially until we were well into adulthood.

It was also why I’d wanted to do everything possible, not to accept a dime of support from this day forward.

“So, Dad mentioned your new neighbors… Funny story: I just realized that they’re my new bosses.”

I was the main subject for the next hour and a half as my parents tried to talk me out of the position. When my father offered me a position in his company, I refused.

“You know, I might just want to work on my music,” I said, finally expressing my true feelings. While my parents supported my music as a hobby, I don’t think they ever saw it as a legitimate source of income. That’s why, even though I had applied to Berklee, I knew it wouldn’t be an option for me.

“Callie, you know we’ll support you in whatever you want to try. We don’t see that as a viable path. You’re incredibly talented, but the music industry doesn’t magically break your way just because you have talent,” my mom explained.

“I fully understand that, Mom. I’m not looking to be the next superstar. But I’ve missed performing, even if those performances are limited to a small social media following and open mic nights. If I can thank Zander for anything, it’s the hordes of material he provided for new songs.”

“Fuck Zander,” Juno burst out, holding her wine glass up in a cheers gesture, “Fuck Zander,” we all repeated in unison.

Before I left, I shared the time and place of my next gig with my family. My parents already had an event that night and apologized for missing it, but Juno and PJ promised to attend.