Page 16 of Nine Week Nanny

Now it mocks me. I'm paralyzed from enjoying any of it because of the anxiety I have about this predicament.

I drop onto the pristine white sofa I splurged on and stare at the lease agreement spread across my glass coffee table. $2,800 a month. Plus utilities. Plus car payment. Plus groceries. Plus...

"Fuck."

My stomach twists as I grab my phone and open my banking app again. The numbers haven't magically increased since I checked twenty minutes ago. My savings account balance glares back at me. I have enough to cover about five weeks of expenses if I'm extremely careful.

Who notifies someone three days before they start that the position is delayed? Who does that?

I toss my phone onto the cushion beside me, then immediately pick it up again. The rational part of my brain knows checking my account repeatedly won't change anything, but I can't stop.

My gaze drifts to the ocean view again. All that blue, all that freedom, and I'm trapped in this beautiful, golden cage I signed up for.

The irony isn't lost on me. I moved here for independence, to take the leap into adulthood. Now I'm facing failure before I've even begun.

The silence in the condo presses against my ears. Even with the sunlight, the place is cold and empty. Nothing like the warm, inviting space I'd imagined filling with friends and colleagues from my fancy new job.

I should have asked for the contract in writing. That was a rookie mistake. I run my fingers through my hair.

I scroll through my phone to Maris's contact and click to call. I've already dumped enough of my problems on her, but the alternative is sitting here alone with my thoughts, which are spiraling faster than I can manage.

"Just venting," I whisper to myself as the phone rings. "Not asking for advice. Not asking for help. Just venting."

But even as I say it, I know I'm lying to myself. I need more than just someone to listen. I need a way out of this mess.

"Sloane? You there? I think we have a bad connection.” Maris’s voice is calm, like she’s still processing the bomb I dropped the last time we spoke.

"Yeah, I’m here,” I say as I switch the speaker off and press the phone to my ear.

I continue my pacing across the living room. "And before you ask, no, I haven’t seen him again. I’d rather starve than makethatmy Palm Beach comeback story."

"I wasn’t going to ask," she says, but I can hear the unspoken curiosity in her voice.

"Mar, I'm dying on a vine over here."

"I hate you're going through this, Sloaney-Bologna. Did you talk to the lady at HR? Is it better or worse than she made it seem?"

"Worse. Her email said sixty to ninety days. She essentially said ninety days. I guess the good news is she is certain I will have a job at the end of all this. The bad news is, I have to figure out how to survive for twelve weeks."

"Let's focus on the positive. You have a job."

I laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "True, I guess. If there is a glimmer of a silver lining here. Except, when you factor in that I'm in a city where I know literally no one and my savings will be gone in five weeks, that glimmer fades. Quick."

"Take a breath?—"

"I can't take a breath, Maris. I signed a lease I can't afford without a paycheck. Every day I sit here is another two hundred dollars down the drain just for taking a breath."

My bare feet slap against the cool tiles as I make another lap around the living room.

"Have you looked at other options? Maybe something temporary? Or, you could always move back to Augusta or Clemson to get a job to pay the bills until things turn around?"

"Like what? I've applied to every clinic and therapy center within twenty miles. Nothing. The thought of going back to Georgia or South Carolina feels like defeat."

"What about babysitting? Surely some rich folks there need a sitter. You were so good with kids when you babysat all through grad school. You loved it."

I stop mid-stride. "Are you serious right now? Three years of grad school wasn't so I could wipe noses and cut up apple slices, Maris."

"I know, but?—"