Page 47 of Nine Week Nanny

“Hey.”

“You sound like a man carrying too much weight and not enough fun,” she sings, her voice bright and cutting as ever.

“I swear, where do you come up with this shit you say?”

She laughs. “Tell me you’re not sitting alone in that big fancy house, brooding.”

“Fine. I won’t tell you.”

She hums knowingly, then shifts. “And Lennon? How’s that sweet, precious boy doing?”

“Adjusting,” I say. “Slowly.”

“And you?”

“I’m managing.”

“Mm. That’s your word for suffering in silence. You got that from me, you know.”

My jaw tightens. “I’m fine, Val.”

"Sure you are." She pauses. "You know, I'm proud of you. Stepping up for that boy. Your father would've?—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharp, brittle.

"Fair enough." She softens her tone. "But you're not Chris, Pope. Never have been. That's why you're there for Lennon when no one else would be."

I grip the neck of the wine bottle until it creaks in warning. "Is there a point to this call?"

"Just checking in." Her voice shifts, with that same blend of truth and teasing that's uniquely Valerie.

"Give Hart my love, then. I'm going to turn in. I've got an early morning tomorrow."

"Before you go, Hart and I were thinking we could come see you and meet Lennon now that you're settled."

The thought of juggling her on top of everything else makes my head pound. "Lennon’s dealing with a lot right now, Val. He barely knows me at this point. I’d love that, but let’s hold off a little longer."

"That makes sense. When he's ready, and you think you're up for company, and maybe even some babysitting, you let me know, Son, okay?"

"Will do."

“Take care of yourself, Pope,” she says finally, her tone a mix of truth and teasing. “Because you and I both know—burnt-out men make lousy guardians.”

The line goes quiet before I can answer.

I stare at the dead phone in my hand, her words still humming through me. Valerie has always been a little out there, never perfect. But she’s always been there.

Her advice always sounds half like snake oil, half like prophecy. And it always lands.

But it isn’t just Lennon I’m thinking of right now. It’s her.

Sloane’s face refuses to leave my head, the taste of her still imprinted on my memory. Burnt-out men make lousy guardians. Maybe so. But it isn’t exhaustion that’s going to ruin me.

It’s wanting her that is going to break me before this is all done.

THIRTEEN

Sloane