Page 113 of Nine Week Nanny

Vanessa sighs. "I can put out feelers, but be clear: there will be financial implications, and I can’t imagine we'll find someone with your skill set to fill in. There’s alwayssomeone,but not necessarily someone like you."

I think that was a compliment. Or, maybe it's a guilt trip. Either way, I feel like an asshole even asking.

"I'll reach out to Mr. Carrigan to see what his thoughts are now. Things could have changed on his end, making this a moot point."

A jolt of panic flares. "No, please don’t. Not yet. There’s no need to upset things if I decide to stay. I only wanted to see if a replacement was even possible."

"Understood. But you’ll need to speak with him directly before we can proceed."

"I will. Thank you, Vanessa."

I end the call and set my phone down, my palm damp against the screen. Outside, cars move through the lot, their comings and goings strangely final.

Two weeks or five. Either way, my time with Lennon is finite. And still, the thought of leaving him sooner than I have to makes my chest ache.

I press my forehead to the cool glass, whispering the truth I can’t tell anyone else. "That little boy is the only thing keeping me here."

I siton the beach blanket watching Lennon chase seagulls along the shoreline, his laughter carrying on the breeze. The sun hangs low in the sky, painting everything gold.

"Sloane! Look how fast they fly!" He points excitedly as a flock scatters.

"Super fast," I call back, forcing enthusiasm into my voice.

My mind keeps circling back to that letter from Coastal Children's, to my conversation with Vanessa. A dream job versus a temporary position that was never meant to be permanent.

Lennon runs back, cheeks flushed with exertion. "Can we build a sandcastle before dinner?"

"A quick one." I crouch down, helping him scoop wet sand. "Then we need to head back and start cooking."

We shape towers and carve moats, his tongue poking out in concentration. He pats each mound with careful precision, as if the whole structure depends on his small hands. A lump forms in my throat. These tiny, ordinary moments are what I’ll miss most.

Maybe it’s better if I step away sooner. Cleaner for everyone. Less messy for Pope. No stories for Chris to twist. Just distance.

"Time to go, buddy." I guide him to the surf, rinsing grit from his fingers. The waves lick at our ankles, cool and fleeting.

"Okay. We are making pizza, right?"

"You bet. Race you to the house!"

Later, as I tuck Lennon into bed, he grabs my hand.

"Will you read the shark book again?"

"Of course." I pull the well-worn book from his shelf, settling beside him.

Three pages in, his eyelids grow heavy. By page five, he’s out, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. I close the book softly and smooth his hair back.

“I’ll figure this out,” I whisper. “I’ll do what’s best for you, even if it hurts.”

THIRTY

Pope

The earliest easing of the black sky sneaks through the large window facing the ocean as I hunker over spreadsheets, my coffee long gone cold.

It’s three-thirty in the morning, and sleep wasn’t happening, so I figured I ought to be productive.

My phone vibrates against the desk. Caleb’s name flashes on screen.