The Nanny

Pretending that I was A-OK with Sophie and Iris this evening had been a real struggle. Sophie thankfully had a bonding experience today with a girl who was interested in Sophie’s Disney birthday trip, so going over every facet of that conversation had been Sophie’s main focus for most of the evening. I was genuinely happy to hear about her potentially making a friend, and if I hadn’t been so nervous about what I had to do when her dad gets home, I might have even suggested taking her out to celebrate. Then there were the pictures, and since Iris had been the one recounting all the memories that were attached to each photo, I was able to mostly just sit nearby and listen to Iris remember it all.

It had been a good night, outside of my inner turmoil. It’s one that I could see myself making more of a thing, having Iris over.

Well, if I even get to after this. It could be my last night here, for all I know.

Don’t think like that. There’s still a chance this will work out.

I’ve been doing assignments to keep myself preoccupied ever since Sophie went to bed, realizing after I logged into the portal that I’ve let myself get a lot more behind than I meant to this last week. And as if I haven’t experienced enough stress today, I even missed a deadline entirely, meaning that I now have my first failing grade. I know that one failed assignment isn’t going to get me kicked out of the program or anything, but it sure doesn’t help my current mood.

I did get that drink; I had to wait for Sophie to completely pass out to get it, but the very large glass of wine from the bottle that I can’t pronounce, which tastes like it is worth more than I get paid in a week, helps take the edge off. I pilfered it from Aiden’s wine fridge, so if this night goes south, it might be another nail in my coffin. Doesn’t stop me from drinking it though.

For the last hour, I’ve been watching the front door from the settee by the stairs, where I’m lounging with my laptop, every car passing by outside making me perk up as I wonder when Aiden will get home.

I’m wearing the same pink shirt that has gotten us into trouble a few times; it’s probably cheating to try to arouse memories of, well, arousal at a time like this—but I figure working whatever angle I can in my favor can’t hurt. Like Aiden will somehow be so distracted by my tits that he will forget that I’ve been lying to him for weeks.

Not lying, my brain corrects. It’s just an omission.

Because that’s a huge difference.

I take another slow sip of wine, letting it swish in my mouth for a second before I swallow it. It’s dry and a little bitter, but the taste of it helps keep me awake. The screen of my laptop is starting to blur as my eyes burn with fatigue, and I reach to rub them with my fingers as I stifle a yawn. You’d think with all the anxiety I’d be wide awake, but it seems to be having the opposite effect. I’ve been so up and down with worry today that my body seems to be revolting. I would guess that all the late nights I’ve spent with Aiden recently haven’t exactly helped the situation, either, but I can’t find it in me to complain about that.

I shut my laptop and put it beside me before I reach to set my glass on the little side table nearby. I stretch my arms above my head afterward, my neck cracking as I turn it this way and that. My phone puts the time at just after eleven, and I know that Aiden could walk through the door at any moment.

God, maybe I should have called Wanda.

She would have probably known the perfect thing to say. That, or she would have just told me to take off my shirt as more of a distraction. It could have gone either way. She’d probably be proud of me for wearing the thinnest bra I own tonight. Me on the other hand . . . Yeah. Still feels like cheating.

I sigh as I reach for my wineglass again, holding it near my mouth as I stare at the railing that lines the stairs, getting lost in my own thoughts and contemplating the worst possible outcome. I’ve always been of the mind that if you expect disappointment you can never be disappointed, so maybe that’s why I’m playing out in my head what the worst ending looks like.

Worse comes to worst, Aiden tells me he doesn’t feel comfortable keeping me on as the nanny, let alone as his . . . whatever I am to him. (How pathetic is it that I’m just now realizing we haven’t even defined what the hell we are.) Worse comes to worst—Aiden will tell me that I will need to pack up my things tomorrow, he’ll cut me a nice severance check (he seems the type), and then he will escort me out of his house and out of his life. For the second time.

Don’t be dramatic. He didn’t even know your name then.

I shake my head as I bring the glass to my lips again, closing my eyes as I tip it back to try to down the last little bit of red liquid. Now, I’m not actually drunk; I’m hardly even tipsy—so I can’t say why I would choose this moment to be clumsy. Maybe it’s the nerves, or maybe it’s just the soul-crushing stress I’ve been under these last couple of days . . . I don’t know. Regardless, my glass chooses this moment to miss my mouth, the last of the wine dribbling over my bottom lip and spilling all down the front of my shirt.

“Shit.”

The damage is done; apparently there was a lot more wine left in the glass than I realized. (Why did I have to choose the largest one in the cabinet?) My shirt is soaked through from tits to navel, and when I stand up quickly to avoid getting any on the settee, I realize that I’m dripping all over the tile.

“Great,” I mutter, turning to set my glass back on the side table. “Perfect.”

I have my shirt over my head before I can second-guess it, and it isn’t until I’m down on my knees mopping up the bit of wine that’s dripped on the floor that the full hilarity of this situation hits me. Wasn’t this exactly how I’d found Aiden that night I’d waited up for him? He’d called it stupid then. What a damned pair we make.

I’m swirling the sodden cloth on the tile even as my breasts and belly are still damp with lingering drops of wine, cursing my luck as I clean up my mess so I can hurry and change before Aiden gets home.

But my luck with meeting Aiden in any capacity has proven to be mostly shitty in the past, and this is no exception. Hearing the keys in the door at that moment leaves me too stunned to move, left frozen on my hands and knees with an open mouth and a wine-stained shirt in my grip. He steps through just like he always does, hanging his keys on the hook and slipping off his shoes at the door, and it takes him a second to notice me there, gawking back at him.

“Cassie?”

I suddenly forget how to speak, still staring at him. The cold air on my back feels like a scary thing now.

He takes a step closer. “What happened?”

“I spilled my wine,” I manage, pushing up so that I’m resting on my knees to keep my back hidden from him. “Soaked my shirt.”

“Wow,” he laughs. “And your first instinct was to tear it off? I think you’ve been spending too much time with me.”

The closer he gets the more panicked I feel, and I scramble to a standing position as fast as I can as he closes the distance between us. He’s still smiling at me as he runs a finger over the damp skin of my breasts, and my voice is lodged in my throat as I think about nothing but escaping.

This isn’t how I wanted to tell him.

“I should go get another shirt,” I try, sidestepping away from him.

Aiden’s arms encircle me, pulling me against him. “Just so I can take it off of you again?”

“Oh, I—”

My heart is rattling around in my ribs, so loud I find myself wondering if he can hear it. It’s the first time I’ve ever been shirtless with him that I wasn’t on my back or on top of him—in total control. Something I don’t feel like I am right now. In control. His fingers are sliding up my spine to climb higher, and with every inch I find it harder to breathe.

“Aiden, I need to talk to you.”

He hums softly, bending to let his lips skirt along my jaw. “About?”

“There’s just”—he makes it hard to think when he kisses my neck like that—“something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

His hands are so close now, and I know any second he’s going to feel it, and then I won’t have a chance to ease him into this like I’d planned. I bring my hands between us to press against his chest gently, warring between wanting to bring him closer and knowing I should push him away.

“Aiden, I—”

Fuck.

I can feel it, when he goes still. It’s curious at first, his touch— his fingertips tracing the edge of my scar like he hasn’t quite figured out what it is. I feel his hand flatten against the entire shape of it, no doubt feeling the difference in texture between my scar and the rest of my skin.

“Cassie, what’s—?”

I do push away from him then, looking down at my feet since I’m having a hard time looking at him. I know this could be it, that after this he might never smile at me again, and why does that feel so devastating all of a sudden? We’ve only known each other for a short while, only given in to these urges for only a few weeks—so why does it feel like this could be the end of something important?

“I should have told you as soon as I realized,” I mutter quietly at the floor. “I didn’t—at first I didn’t know how, and I was afraid to lose my job, and I know that I should have said something after we had sex, but I just . . . It’s awful, I know, but I was just so afraid you’d disappear again, and it just felt so shitty the first time, and I realize this all sounds pathetic, but—”

“Hey.”

I finally look at him then, feeling his hands at my shoulders as he brings his face level with mine.

“Cassie, what are you talking about?”

There’s genuine confusion in his eyes that blends with actual concern, like he has no idea what I’m talking about. And why would he? I’m barely making any sense. I can feel my eyes growing wet as I feel genuine fear for whatever is about to happen, but I take a deep breath, knowing it’s still the right thing to do.

I turn slowly, trying to keep my back straight so I don’t look as pitiful as I feel, staring at the wall of the alcove by the stairs as I wait for him to say something. It takes seconds, or maybe hours, I can’t be sure, but then I feel his hands at my skin, tracing again. Maybe he’s trying to place it. Maybe he doesn’t even remember it, and right now that almost feels like it might be worse. Being such a blip on his radar that he doesn’t even remember.

His voice is impossibly soft when he finally says something. “You were making dinner.”

He remembers. I shouldn’t be excited that he remembers.

“Because I was home alone,” I whisper back.

“And you accidentally pulled the pot of boiling water onto yourself.”

I can barely hear myself when I answer, “I couldn’t get out of the way in time. I caught it with my back.”

“I . . .”

I’m shivering, but I don’t think it’s the air-conditioning.

“Cassie, are you—?”

I can only nod.

He’s quiet again after that, impossibly quiet. I want to look at him, but I’m too afraid to. I’m too scared to find out what look he’ll be wearing when I do. Disappointment? Anger? I don’t know which would be worse.

“How long have you known?”

I swallow. “Since I saw your scar.”

“So, the entire time that we’ve been . . .”

I nod again.

“Jesus, Cassie. How could you not tell me?”

I shut my eyes tight. He definitely sounds angry. “I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“It’s just . . . you disappeared so suddenly back then, and I thought—God. I guess I was naive. I thought you actually liked me, and that you actually wanted to meet up. So when you were just . . . gone, I just—” I blow out a shaky breath. “I didn’t want to have to go through that again. Especially now that I . . . know you. It would be so much shittier now.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

My eyes fly open, and I can’t help it then, turning to face him so that he can hopefully see the sincerity in my face. “Yes! I was going to tell you tonight. I was going to tell you today, actually, but then you . . . um, distracted me, and there was all of that shit with Iris, and you had to go to work, and I just thought we needed to have an actual conversation about it, and—”

I go quiet, finally noticing his expression. It’s angry, to be sure, and confused, sure, but I notice that there is none of the emotion I had been most afraid to see.

Disappointment.

Aiden doesn’t look disgusted, or put out; sure, he looks like he’s mad that I let him in my bed so many times without telling him the truth, but somehow it doesn’t feel as dire as I thought it would be.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I should have told you sooner.”

His eyes are still hard. “Yes. You should have. I still can’t believe you didn’t.”

“I know.” I look down at my feet again. I’m still half-naked and covered in fucking wine. This couldn’t get any worse. “I know. I’m sorry.”

I’m still staring at my toes while I wait for him to say something, feeling my pulse pounding in my ears as I wait and see whether Aiden will choose to try to talk this out with me, or if he’ll ask me to leave. I’m not ashamed of my past, and I won’t let someone make me feel like I need to be, not even Aiden—but damn if it won’t hurt if he turns out not to be who I thought he was by trying to make me feel that way. Then again, I did keep things from him, so maybe he would be justified? I don’t know. It’s making my head hurt, and at this point, I wish he’d just get it over with.

Whatever “it” is.