Page 2 of Nine Week Nanny

I snort, dodging a palm frond that leans too far over the sidewalk. Yeah. Or maybe him.

I pass manicured hedges and fountains, my sandals slapping softly against the pavement. The entrance to my development comes into view, modest by Palm Beach standards but still nicer than anywhere I’ve lived. The pool glitters in the distance.

My phone buzzes again.

You have a point. You’ve been in a drought since Chad the Chewer.

I groan at the memory of my last disastrous date.

Don’t remind me of him. I’ve sworn off all Chads.

I slow my pace, picturing those dark eyes locking on mine. The warmth in my chest has nothing to do with the heavy Florida air. Chad the Chewer never did that.

Go for it, girl! Why not. You’ve spent practically your whole life celibate.

It’s been seven months, not seven years. Besides, I need to focus on this job.

Speaking of which, every minute with no word is upping my anxiety.

Still no email from HR. I’m supposed to start on Monday. Is this normal? Should I be worried?

I swipe my fob at the gate, the low beep echoing in the warm evening air. The knot of anxiety that’s been sitting under my ribs since I moved here tightens.

Take a breath. Starting a new therapist in a clinic is always chaotic. They probably have their hands full with patient intake. Call tomorrow if you’re worried, but I’m sure everything’s fine.

But what if it’s not? My lease is signed. I’ve already unpacked most of my stuff.

I follow the path toward my building, the trickle of a nearby fountain mingling with the faint hum of cicadas.

Sloane Elizabeth Brennan. The universe brought you to Palm Beach for a reason. You worry about everything. Just relish your cush job and go sit by the pool or something.

I smile despite myself. Classic Maris. She’s always been steady, pragmatic, the one who talks me down when I start to spiral. It’s exactly why she’s good for me.

Good point. Just getting to my new place that is full of overwhelming boxes. Let me go so I can focus my anxiety on that for the moment. LYLAS

I glance at my phone one more time before shoving it in my bag. I need to stop obsessing. She’s probably right. This is my fresh start. Everything's going to be amazing.

I hit my floor in the elevator and step into my apartment. The blast of cold AC hits me like a welcome slap in the face. It's both soothing and scary as hell. I'm here alone, in this new city, new state, and I'm about to start a new job without any safety net.

I drop my bag on the couch and scan the sea of cardboard boxes scattered across the room. There's so much to do, so much to unpack, organize, and rearrange.

In a way, I’m grateful for the distraction. Nesting will give me something to focus on.

I pull my hair into a messy bun, grab a box labeled "KITCHEN,” and slice through the tape. The first thing I pull out is my favorite coffee mug, the one with the chip on the handle.

I pause, running my finger along the worn edge. This mug got me through my last year at Clemson. The late nights, the stacks of case studies, the endless exams come rushing back.

I pull out the rest of the cups, each one a little piece of my past, and line them up on the open shelves. With each box I unpack, this foreign, stark apartment is starting to feel a little more like home.

The lease packet sits on the counter. Its shiny black folder catches the light, taunting me with its expensive glossy finish.

I flip it open. $2,800 a month. My stomach clenches. It’s triple what I paid in Seneca, the small town I lived in while in grad school.

I shove it closed and reach for a stack of chipped plates, sliding them into the cabinet. They look wildly out of place against the glossy white shelves, like they wandered in from a thrift store, which, of course, they did.

Three years of student loans, babysitting money, and dollar-menu dinners had me convinced I’d be eating ramen forever.Now there’s a salary big enough to make that number on the lease almost reasonable. Ninety thousand a year with benefits. I can't believe I'm starting my first clinic job with actual paid vacation.

I breathe in, trying to picture myself as the kind of woman who belongs here.