Page 138 of Nine Week Nanny

Lennon sorts the shells by some system only he understands, not size or color, but something uniquely his.

"The orange ones go here because they're happy shells," he explains, pointing to a cluster. "And these gray ones are the thinking shells."

"What about that one?" I tap a purple-tinged spiral.

His brow furrows in serious consideration. "That's a maybe shell. I haven't decided yet."

I lean back on my elbows, watching him work. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Caleb, but I ignore it. This moment is too fragile to break.

"When Tía Camila gets her house, can I take these with me?" Lennon asks without looking up.

The question hits like a wave breaking unexpectedly. "Of course you can."

I flash back to her call yesterday, telling me she needs more time, still. I'm starting to wonder if she will ever get her shit together.

"When is she getting it?"

I swallow hard. "I'm not sure exactly. She's still figuring things out."

Lennon pushes a shell deeper into the sand. "She said soon last time. And before that, too."

"I know, buddy."

"Is soon like tomorrow? Or, like next year?"

My chest tightens. How do I explain what I barely understand myself? Camila's calls have grown shorter, her visits less frequent. Last week, she mentioned saving for a down payment "might take another year."

"It's complicated, Lennon. But she's working very hard to make it happen."

He abandons his sorting to look directly at me. "Do you want me to go?"

The question knocks the air from my lungs. "What?"

"Do you want me to live with you? Or do you want me to go with Tía Camila?"

His eyes, so much like my own, search my face with an intensity that makes my throat close up. The truth I've been avoiding crashes over me: I don't want him to go anywhere.

The thought of this house without his shoes by the door and his books scattered across the coffee table is impossible to imagine now.

"I want you to be happy," I finally manage, the coward's answer.

"Don't you want me?"

Lennon's question cuts through the sound of the waves, his voice small but unflinching. The shells he's been sorting sit forgotten between us.

My lungs freeze mid-breath. The wind is suddenly cold against my skin.

I reach for him without thinking, pulling his thin frame against my chest. His body is stiff in my arms, waiting for an answer he's afraid to hear.

"Yes," I whisper into his hair. Then louder, more certain: "Yes, Lennon. I want you here. More than anything."

His small hands grip the back of my shirt, his breath warm against my neck.

I pull back just enough to look at his face. His eyes are wet, fear swimming behind them like shadows in dark water. How long has he been carrying this question? How many nights has he lain awake, wondering if he's just another burden passed from person to person?

My throat tightens.

"It's just..." I search for words that won't hurt him more. "My job is very busy. I won't be in Palm Beach forever. I travel a lot and…"