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And why do I care?

I shake off the thoughts, trying to tell myself it doesn’t matter. It’s not my place. I move on and take the kids to school, like a nanny should do.

A nanny should not obsess about her boss.

Somehow, I’ve managed to avoid any more awkward run-ins with him.

No garage moments where I’m wearing only a towel.

No heated moments in the kitchen when I sneak furtive glances his way.

No massages or naps on my couch. Just the faint reminder of him in small things, like the sheets I curl up in at night or the quiet creak of his footsteps upstairs.

Everything is starting to feel business as usual , especially since I turn in the science fair paperwork.

On Friday morning, I head to the rink again at dawn where I take another video of my morning routine, then shoot a skating tutorial on how to do a camel spin.

After that, my student arrives, and I focus on her.

I’m nearly two weeks in, and the job is steady. Everything I wanted.

I tell my therapist as much when I finally see her again later that morning, catching her up on everything that’s gone down since my almost wedding.

“And how are you feeling about all that?” Elena asks, waving a hand as if to encompass the montage of the last few months.

I noodle on her question as I look around.

It’s…nice to be back in her office. Though, is that the right word for seeing your therapist?

Nice? Well, her office has always felt a little like a sanctuary for me.

A place where I could escape from the rigors of my parents’ expectations.

A spot where I could learn to let go of the rules they implemented for me. So yeah, it is nice.

Her office is cozy, with a picture of a red, snow-covered cabin on the wall that’s always felt homey to me—the opposite of where I grew up, in my parents’ pristine, don’t-touch-the-vases-on-the-mantel kind of home.

Elena Alvarez feels the opposite of them too. She’s grandmotherly, with warm brown skin, silver in her hair, and a crocheted blanket on her couch that her daughter made for her.

“It’s...” I say, stopping to fiddle with the yarn, wanting to get the words right. “It’s good. It feels…like I’m not the Queen of Chaos for the first time.”

“Your summer was a little chaotic,” she says, sympathetically.

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure what was happening in my life,” I say with a shrug.

“And now?”

That’s the question. I feel stable for the first time in a while, and I don’t want to rock that boat. I probably shouldn’t tell her about my feelings for my boss. They can’t go anywhere. They won’t go anywhere.

“It’s good,” I say brightly. “I like the job, and I can focus on my business too. I like the kids. It’s great.”

She nods a few times, her blue eyes thoughtful, as if she’s taking my comments at face value. “I’m glad.” She takes a beat, her brain clearly working through something.

“Before you almost got married,” she begins, and I tense, unsure where she’s going.

“You never mentioned things with Chad were…less than ideal,” she says, since we’ve got a lot to catch up on.

“Were you surprised when you learned he was cheating on you? Was there relief? Were you feeling all along that maybe he wasn’t the one? ”

Those are good questions—ones I mulled over all summer. Was I simply fooled, or had I fooled myself? “Things seemed good enough,” I say, answering truthfully since that’s the point of going to therapy.

Elena nods, as if she’s absorbing that. “We’ve talked a lot about perfection. Your pursuit of it. Letting go of that pursuit too. It’s interesting that you expect perfection from yourself but not from others.”

Damn. Way to cut to my core. “It’s not really fair to expect perfection in other people,” I argue.

“True, but ‘good enough’ shouldn’t be the standard either,” she says.

And those are some wise words.

Ones I’ll have to carry with me if I ever date again.

When I return home later that day, my heart squeezes as I advance toward my apartment. The gift man has struck again.

There’s a bag outside my door, but it’s bigger this time—overflowing, almost. I feel spoiled and thrilled in equal parts. I paw through it: yoga blocks, yoga bolsters, and a brand-new yoga mat.

I grab the note tucked inside, feeling a little giddy as I rip it open.

Here’s a bonus of sorts for an excellent first two weeks on the job. But it doesn’t just come with all these fun accoutrements for your yoga corner. I want to build some shelves for the candles and stuff.

— T

The candles have a bright, clean scent—citrusy, like oranges and sunshine. It feels like the kind of smell you’d wear to conquer the day, and I can’t help but smile. This is more than good enough .

My mind spins, and my heart feels all sorts of floaty. It’s such a thoughtful gift, especially because one of the candles says in rhinestones, I’m a Fucking Star.

I roll my lips together like that’ll seal in my excitement, but it doesn’t work.

I’m far too delighted for any one person to be, so I rush up the stairs. I stop short when I find him in the kitchen, leaning casually against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee and smirking.

He knows what he did. He knows I just discovered the gift.

“Do you want to build some shelves with me?” I sing in tune to the Frozen song.

He checks the time. “You know what? I really do.”

He sets down his coffee and heads off, presumably to get a toolbox.

And that makes me even hotter.