Chapter One

Travis

 

A scream rips through the house, loud enough that the noise-cancelling headphones I’m wearing don’t do jack.

       I leap out of bed toward the door, tripping over the rumpled blankets and face-planting hard enough that my forehead bounces off the wood flooring.

       Yup. That really hurts. But I can’t concentrate on the pain, because my son is still screaming. It feels like the sound’s inside of my head. It’s the wind powering my anxiety tornado.

Is there an intruder?

Or…is Ollie dying?

       Maybe he has some awful medical diagnosis his mother didn’t disclose to me when she dropped him off on my doorstep a month ago with nothing but a single suitcase.

       Is he homesick?

       Does he miss his mother?

       Then there’s the other thought, more persistent—I’ve known I’m a father for all of a month, and I’m already failing.

       I get to my feet, my head aching, my headphones askew. The sound of my band’s music is still blasting out of them.

I throw them back toward the bed and charge out the door with new determination and the beginnings of a really awful bruise just beneath the birthmark on my forehead.

       A few seconds later, I burst into Ollie’s bedroom.

       There’s a nightlight in there, purchased after he woke up weeping on his first night in my house. I’d felt like a jackass for not realizing most kids his age are afraid of the dark. I work with children in my afterschool music program, The Missing Beat, but they’re all older. Teenagers. I’ve learned there’s a world of difference between seven and thirteen.

       Thanks to that nightlight, I can see my son’s wide eyes. His serious little face. For a second there’s no recognition in his gaze, but at least he stops screaming.

       “Oh, it’s you, Travis,” he says after a moment.

       He sounds disappointed, like he’d really hoped an intruder would have come in instead.

       My head is throbbing, my breath coming in pants.

       “Are you okay?” I ask in a gush, leaning down to catch my breath.

       “No,” he says, his little cheeks pink, his eyes shining. “I just had a nightmare that my mother left me at a stranger’s house, and I woke up here.”

       Well, shit. I don’t know what to say to that. There’s no denying it’s true. Up until just over a month ago, I didn’t know I had a son, and Ollie thought he had a different father.

       “This is your home,” I say, because it sounds comforting.

       It’s also true. Right now, my house is the only home he has.

       Years ago, his mother Lilah left me for a very rich, very old record producer before realizing she was pregnant. Her solution was to marry him and pretend Ollie was his child. He and Ollie had both believed it up until last month. The truth had come out thanks to one of those home DNA tests and a rightfully suspicious family who hadn’t wanted his millions going to Lilah.

       The geezer had thrown them both out, as if all of the years he’d spent with Ollie had meant nothing.

       Asshole.

       I’d done one of those DNA tests too, after Ollie came to live with me, and it had confirmed that he’s my son. I didn’t really need the test, though. He could have stepped out of my childhood photos. Looking at him brings back memories I’d thought I’d made peace with years ago.

       “This definitely isn’t my home,” he says, folding his knees up and wrapping his skinny arms around them. He looks so painfully small like that, wrapped up like a pretzel. It hurts to look at him, to want to protect him but not know how.

I sit at the bottom of his bed. The spare bedroom still looks the same as it did when he first arrived—a double bed with a white comforter, a non-descript bureau, a desk with a chair, and a framed photo of the Blue Ridge mountains.

       “Why don’t we go to the store and get some stuff for your room?” I suggest, not for the first time. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

       “No,” he says, tightening his arms around his legs. “My mom’s going to come back.”

       Not anytime soon, she’s not.

       She made it very clear it was my turn indefinitely—and then boarded a plane to Australia to follow her new boyfriend’s band around.

       She’s called all of twice to check on him.

       A lawyer helped me get emergency temporary custody, and I plan to seek sole custody once Ollie has been with me for sixty days, which would legally qualify as abandonment in North Carolina.

       While I might not know what to do with him, at least I would never abandon him.

       “Sure,” I say, then add, “but while we’re waiting, we might as well have a little fun, huh?”

       “You’re not fun,” he says flatly. “You don’t have any toys, or anything interesting in this house besides your drums, and you won’t even let me play them. This place is a prison.”

       Ouch.

       I’d bought him a train set the week he got here in mid- September, nearly a month into the school year, but he’d insisted it was a baby toy. I’d asked if he wanted anything else, and he’d told me he wanted nothing from me. The only toy he’s accepted is a stuffed sloth my best friend Rob gave him. He also calls Rob “Uncle Rob,” while I’m still just Travis.

       “What about Winnie?” I ask, referring to the new nanny. “She’s always got that cool fun pack with her.”

We’ve had three nannies. Three, in five weeks. That has to be some kind of record.

       The first nanny quit because Ollie asked her not to sing to him anymore, and when she pressed him for a reason, he said her voice sounded like a dying parrot’s.

       I told him not to be rude and found a new nanny.

       The second nanny quit because he didn’t say a word to her. Not one word in two weeks.

       He admitted he’d only given her the silent treatment because I’d told him not to be rude. 

       But now we’re on to Nanny Number Three, Winnie, and she seems perfect. She’s young, pretty, and has a degree in early childhood education. Better yet, she’s got that fun pack of activity books, markers, bubbles, and other kid crap like stretchy hands that probably leave stains on the walls. (I would have worried about that last month; I couldn’t care less now.) Ollie smiled the first time he saw it, which I figured was a good sign.

       “I don’t think she’s coming back,” he says flatly.

       The ache in my head instantly gets worse.

       “What happened?” I ask, massaging my forehead. My band has a show at a brewery tomorrow night, and Margaret was supposed to watch him.

       “I didn’t do anything,” he says.

       “I didn’t say you did.” Although let’s be honest, he totally did. Ollie is smart—his teacher, Mrs. Applebaum, told me he’s several grade levels above his peers, and he has decided his goal in life is to make me miserable.

Let this be said for my son: he is very goal driven.

       In addition to driving away three perfectly good nannies, he has written his math homework on the walls (to check if the markers are actually washable; they’re not), destroyed ten of my records because he “thought they were frisbees,” nearly burned down the house by microwaving metal, and stuck dried sweetgum balls beneath the sheets of my bed (he denies it, but how else would they have gotten there?). Don’t even get me started on how he keeps calling his teacher Mrs. Applebottom.

       Rob says Ollie’s just acting out to get attention. I get it. His world has imploded, but my world has imploded too.

       For years, I’ve been keeping my anxiety at bay by closely controlling every aspect of my environment at home, and now I’m in control of nothing.

       I’ve barely slept. I stay up for hours, waiting for Ollie to scream or start roaming the house in the middle of the night. My mind is a constantly whirling tornado of intrusive thoughts.

       “I know you hate me,” Ollie says, glaring at me with burning eyes.

       “I don’t hate you,” I say softly.

       What I do feel for him would be harder to put into words. I didn’t have any time to wrap my brain around the idea of him before I was dealing with the reality. He’s my son, and I love him, but it’s not like any kind of love I’ve ever experienced. My feelings for him ache, and they’re awful—protectiveness wrapped in worry, encased in a shell of inadequacy.

       “If you cared about me, you’d ask Hannah to be my nanny.”

       Oh, Christ, not this again.

       Hannah is Rob’s girlfriend’s friend. They brought her over here once, on the day Ollie was first dropped off. Honestly, I barely remember that evening. I was struggling to process the fact that I was a father, and not of some baby, but a fully-formed seven-year-old boy who is probably smarter than I am.

       Rob and his girl Sophie took off, but Hannah volunteered to stay behind and hang out with Ollie for a while. She watched some cartoons with him and made him Mac & Cheese. Everything seemed to be going well—she has a knack for talking to kids—so I asked if it would be okay if I left them alone for a while. I needed to play the drums in the (mostly) soundproof music room.

       It’s one of the only things that helps me work through my emotions so I can feel like a functional human being.

       When I came back, Hannah was playing Cards Against Humanity with Ollie, both of them laughing hysterically.

       “What are you doing?” I asked, horrified.

       “We’re having fun,” my son said, giving me a dark look. The first of many.

       “Oh, relax,” she said, rolling her eyes at me. “I took out all of the bad cards.”

       “But they’re all bad,” I stammered. “That’s the whole point.”

       I mean…who plays Cards Against Humanity with a seven-year-old kid?

       Ollie might be a genius, but he’s still a child.

       I’d suggested it was time for her to go home, Ollie told me he hated me for the first time, and now he asks about her every few days, like clockwork.

       “Hannah’s not a nanny,” I point out for the hundredth time.

       “She doesn’t have another job right now. She told me.”

       “That doesn’t make her a solid employment prospect. And, again, she has no relevant childcare experience.” 

       “She helped raise her little brother,” he points out. “Now, he’s a chef in Boston, so he must have turned out okay.”

       “Every chef I’ve ever met is mentally imbalanced.”

       He gives me a hard look. “That’s not very nice, Travis. You told me not to make assumptions about people.”

       After he’d told another boy he mustn’t be very smart because he thought the Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles were real.

       I rub my forehead more, which doesn’t help at all.

       “Why don’t I have one of those?” Ollie asks, pointing at my forehead.

       I rearrange my hair over the port-wine birthmark, which is small enough to be hidden. “Genetics works in funny ways. Consider yourself lucky you inherited my fingers instead.”

       “You can’t inherit fingers, Travis,” he objects.

       But he did. His hands are tiny versions of mine. It filled me with awe the first time I noticed, a deeper kind of wonder than when I first heard a song I’d played on broadcast on the radio.

       “Well, you’d know. You’re the brains in this operation, Ollie.”

       “I didn’t get those from you either.”

       I sigh.

       “Or from my mother. She doesn’t care about facts.”

       That’s for damn sure. Lilah is wild. The time we’d spent together was fun, but it had felt like being on a rollercoaster with no exit or ending.  

       This is a guess—an assumption, if you will—but Hannah is a bit like that too. She’s the life of every party she goes to, but bright lights can be blinding.

       I’m a man who believes in learning from the past, so I’ve tried to stay away from her.

It’s hard, and not just because Ollie is so fixated on her. She’s Rob’s girlfriend’s best friend, and Sophie goes to a lot of our shows. So does Hannah. And whenever she’s there, I find myself watching her. Soaking in the details of her, even the slight look of contempt she seems to reserve just for me.

       But I don’t want to think about Hannah right now. I don’t want to think about anything but my pillow….and whether it’ll hurt to lie down now that I’ve bruised my forehead.

       “Will you be able to get back to sleep?” I ask.

       “I’m going to read my science facts book for a while,” Ollie says, flicking on the small lamp next to his bed. “And then I’ll try. Are you going to call Hannah?”

       “I don’t know,” I mutter, feeling defeated.

       “You didn’t say no!”

       He sounds so excited that I’m positive he won’t be going back to sleep. He’ll probably wander around the house again, knocking things over. Watching TV. Waking up the neighbors.

       “Goodnight, Ollie,” I say, leaning forward to hug him.

       He’s wooden in my arms, but he doesn’t pull away.

       “I want you here, kid. I’m glad you’re here.”

       Not true. Also not a lie.

       “Okay,” he says. Which is better than if he’d told me I was full of BS, I guess.

       I go back to my room, feeling beyond exhausted.

       Which is when it occurs to me…

       I can’t bring him to the show tomorrow, so I might really have to get in touch with Hannah. I’ve burned every nanny bridge I’ve come to.

      

 

Chapter Two

Hannah

 

       Being unemployed is fantastic. Seriously! I get to do whatever I want, whenever I want. Today, I’m doing event makeup for Tallulah, who’s getting hitched to two dudes who run a goat farm.

       Yes, she’s marrying both of them. (Well, symbolically.)

       Tallulah used to come in to Big Catch, the brewery where I worked as the evening floor manager, to buy the occasional keg for events at the goat farm. Goat yoga with microbrews is their big money maker. We got to talking, and I mentioned that I was a professionally trained makeup artist. So she reached out to me a few weeks ago and offered me a trade: all the goat’s milk soap and cheese I could possibly want in exchange for doing her bridal makeup.

       I’m lactose intolerant and iffy about goat soap, but you can bet your butt I said yes. I mean, I had questions.

For one, why would a woman bother getting symbolically married to two men? Isn’t one man enough of a problem?

       It looks like I’m going to get my big chance to ask, because event makeup takes time, and we just finished cleansing and moisturizing her face in one of the bathrooms in the delightful cottage on the goat farm. It’s in between Asheville and Black Mountain, and it looks like it was plucked out of one of those German cautionary fairy tales my dad used to read to us, where someone always loses a hand or an eye. It’s especially lovely at this time of year, the leaves turning gold and orange and red. Even the bathroom is delightful too—there’s a deep copper tub and plenty of room for a chair in front of the sink and mirror, which is making my job a lot easier.

       “Soooo,” I said as I start to apply primer on her smooth cheeks. “Isn’t it a bit hard to juggle two men? Men are soooo….”

       I make a face to indicate I don’t even have words for them.

       “Oh, they’re both lovely,” Tallulah tells me with a pitying look. “Very in touch with their emotional selves. I love them, and they love each other. There’s a lot of hate in the world, but there’s so much love to go around.”

       I have to snort. Literally have to.

       “Sorry,” I say, continuing with the application. “I was just thinking about my ex. He had plenty of love to go around too. He was seeing four of us at the same time, but none of us knew.”

       “Really?” she asks hungrily. So at least I’m not the only nosy bitch in the house. (I say this with the utmost respect.) 

       “Yeah, but we flipped the script,” I tell her. “Three of us got together, and we became best friends, because screw him. We hang out all the time.”

       I feel a warm fondness bloom in my chest whenever I talk about Sophie and Briar. They’d walked into my life at a time when I’d needed a friend, badly. I’d found two. Losing Jonah had barely been a blip on my radar.

       “What about the fourth women?” Tallulah asks, souring me on her the slightest bit.

       “She doesn’t seem too interested in our girl gang.” I pause to dot some color corrector beneath her eyes. “but I haven’t given up. I reached out to her again last week.”

       Truthfully: I don’t give up. I’ve been compared unfavorably to a bulldog by more than one person. When I was a kid, my father drilled a no one left behind philosophy into us, and it’s stayed with me.

       “What about the bed?” I ask, ready to change the subject. “Doesn’t it feel crowded with all three of you?”

       She brought me on a tour before we got started, and it’s a double bed. A Double. Unthinkable with three people.

       “Sometimes, when the goats sleep with us,” she says with a careless shrug.

       “The goats sleep with you?”

       “Oh, sure,” she says. “But they’re not housebroken, so it can get rough.”

       Damn. I wish I’d thought to bring a notebook. I’m not sure what I’d be cataloguing the information for, but I kind of like the thought of being a modern cultural anthropologist. Self-taught and self-appointed, obviously.

       I desperately want to ask if one of the guys is better at sex, and if that is as subject of embarrassment and sensitivity to everyone, but even I knew better than to ask that.

       I’m kind of hoping she’ll just offer up the information.

       “You’re very good at this,” she says dreamily, staring in the mirror as I move on to the foundation. I’ve barely done anything yet, but she already has a bridal glow.   

       I smile at her reflection. “You’re beautiful. You make it easy. Just wait until I’m finished. They’ll both want to get into your pants at once.”

       This is what I love about makeup—bringing out people’s natural beauty. Everyone has beauty. Everyone.

       The proper use of makeup is to highlight what makes a person special. To give it a crown.

       That’s what I’m doing with Tallulah.

       “I’m going to send you home with some of our goat cheese ice cream too,” she says, beaming at me.

       Well, I’ll certainly be giving that away.

 

       ***

 

       The service is held outside in the goat farm. The pastor is a woman named Stella—a fellow goat enthusiast and the godmother of one of the goat farmers—and her husband is sitting in the front row weeping. From joy, everyone insists, patting him on the back.

       It’s bizarre but kind of sweet, and I can’t deny there’s something compelling about the way both of Tallulah’s husbands are watching her. It’s been a while since anyone’s looked at me that way.

       My car is constantly just on this side of being junkyard ready, so I’d hitched a ride to the farm with someone I know on the catering staff. After the ceremony, she offers to give me a ride home. But I decide to stay for the after party, because I’m really hoping to witness some weird shit: a tantric sex party, some cultist chanting, dancing around a bonfire, that kind of thing.

       Now, let there be no judgement. I’ve known Tallulah for long enough that I can reasonably expect not to be murdered—and if anyone tries, I have pepper spray and metal knuckles on my person. I’d like to think I’d take my murderer down with me or at least leave them with a bloody nose to remember me by.

       To be honest, though, the party ends up being a bit of a disappointment. The dancing only lasts until dark, and everyone who’s left funnels inside to play Settlers of Catan. There are three separate groups.

       I suggest strip Catan for my group, and a guy lectures me on how I didn’t understand the “true spirit of the game.”

       I also, apparently, don’t understand the “true spirit” of marriage, because shouldn’t the happy thruple be having wild sex, or at least dancing to mellow 80s songs?

       I’ll admit, after a few too many hard kombuchas, I flat-out ask Tallulah why she isn’t getting freaky with her husbands.

       She gives me a pitying look and says, “This is foreplay.”

       I don’t see it. Nothing about trading for grain or rice made me feel hot and bothered. And the gaming goes on for hours. Hours.

       So by the time my phone buzzes at two in the morning, I’m more than ready for the distraction.

       “Oops, so sorry, gotta answer this,” I say, lifting it up to show everyone at my table.

       “That’s a text alert,” says the guy sitting next to me, whose name I didn’t catch. “You can’t answer it.”

       “It’s probably super important,” I respond, already on my feet. “You can skip me this round.”

I’m guessing most of the people at my table are happy to get rid of me, probably because I don’t actually know how to play Settlers of Catan, even though three separate people have tried to give me long-winded explanations.

       I shut myself into the bathroom with my latest bottle of hard kombucha before checking my phone—and then do doubletake.

 

Travis: Hi Hannah.

Travis: I was wondering whether you’re busy tomorrow night.

      

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

       After my friend Sophie started dating his friend Rob, Travis and I exchanged a few fun, flirty texts. Okay, several. Mostly about our friends. But our enjoyable back-and-forth exchange ended abruptly after I babysat for his son.

       The poor kid had just gotten dropped off by his mother as if he were a delivery pizza she’d found unsatisfactory. My own mother had abandoned me at around the same age, so I knew exactly what he was going through. He was terrified. He needed a distraction, some fun…so I pulled out the only game that looked remotely fun in Travis’s cabinet.

       And, sure, it isn’t precisely meant for children, but what kid doesn’t love being allowed to do something they shouldn’t?

       Travis made it very clear he doesn’t approve of my parenting skills. I don’t approve of the drumstick he has firmly wedged up his ass. Nor do I want lectures on “proper behavior” from someone who’s my age.

It’s incredibly amusing that Travis would try to sidle into my phone using such a casual approach when we’ve barely spoken all month.

       Based on his opening, there are only two things he could want: Option A: a booty call, or Option B: a favor.

       It’s not hard to figure out which one he’s after.

       Travis is a good-looking guy in a popular local band. He has a very nice house and an attitude that suggests he grew up rich, which is appealing for some women. In other words: he’s not the kind of man who needs to work ahead to cinch a booty call.

       I also happen to know that his band, Garbage Fire, is playing at Big Catch Brewing, my former place of employment, tomorrow night.

       Which means we’re definitely dealing with Option B.

       The guy’s got an almost admirable amount of cajones, I’ll give him that.

       I shake my head at my phone for a solid five seconds before responding.

 

       Me: Ohhh, are you asking me out?
      Me: Because sorry, not interested.

       Me: You’re not my type.

      

       The mirror’s across from me, and I see myself grinning as I wait for his response.

No getting around it, messing with Travis is way more fun than Catan.

       He doesn’t keep me waiting long.

 

       Travis: Very funny, Hannah.

       Me: I thought so too.

       Me: I also think it’s very funny that you’re texting me at two in the morning.

       Travis: I didn’t think you’d answer.

       Me: A fantastic reason for getting in touch.

       Me: So, let’s have it. What do you need? A makeup artist? My usual rate is a hundred-twenty-five an hour.
      Travis: I’m starting to regret texting you.

       Me: Only now?
     

       I have a pretty good memory of his house’s layout, so I try to imagine where he is. Is he sitting in his music room, at his drums? Nah. He wouldn’t want to keep Ollie up with the music. The soundproofing in that place is the best money can buy, but Travis is the cautious type.

       So he’s probably in his bedroom, maybe even lying in his bed. Would he be wearing a T-shirt?

       It’s my imagination, so no T-shirt. Just his toned arms and chest…

       My phone buzzes, and I stop salivating for long enough to pick it up.

 

       Travis: I have that show tomorrow night…

 

       Boom, there it is.

      

       Me: Everyone at Big Catch is probably still pissed at me for quitting. They won’t do you any favors on my account, unless you want free beer. My brother can hook you up with that.

       Travis: This isn’t about Big Catch.

      

       My mouth puckers, because suddenly I know what he’s going to say next, but I can barely believe it.

      

       Travis: Our nanny quit, and I was wondering if you’d be willing to sit for Ollie tomorrow night.

       Travis: Look, I know what you’re going to say.

       Travis: I was a little harsh about the game, but I’d like to keep things age appropriate.

       Travis: I can pay you fifty an hour. It’s not makeup, but I hope it’s still worth your time.

      

       I drop my phone.

       Fifty dollars an hour to watch cartoons with Ollie?

       Most baby-sitting or nannying jobs offer about half that.

       Shit. He must be wealthier than I realized and very desperate. Suspiciously desperate, which automatically makes me curious.

Still...I’m a woman of principles.

       And, by that, I mean I’m stubborn.

       So I respond:

​

       Nope, sorry. Wouldn’t want to poison young minds.

       Travis: You’re going to make me grovel, aren’t you?
      Me: You might want to start by apologizing.

      

Five seconds later, my phone rings.

       My grin spreads wider. Yup, no denying it, I’m enjoying myself.

       “Yes, hello,” I say, “Hannah’s babysitting services. Nothing but the best neglect for your kids.”

       “Hannah,” he says, his voice gruff and very tired. “I’m exhausted.”

       “That definitely sucks, but I fail to see how it’s my problem.”

       “Ollie likes you. He’s…he doesn’t like everyone.”

       “Then he’s the rare man who has excellent judgement.”

       “Please, Hannah. Will you do this for me? I need you to do this for me.”

       I pause, letting him sweat it out, but I’ve already decided I’ll do it. Truth is: I’ve been worried about Ollie and I want to see how he’s doing. I’m doing it more for him, but I’d be lying if I said the bone-deep exhaustion in Travis’s voice didn’t move me—or the gravelly purr of his voice saying please.

       I’m not immune to the draw of making a big, strong man beg.

       “Yeah, okay,” I say after another couple of seconds. “But I’m really bummed to be missing Garbage Fire’s fourth show this month. It’s going to hurt my psyche not to get to hear the same songs over and over again.”

       “We always play a different setlist,” he says with a touch of annoyance, and I nearly burst out laughing.

       They do. They’re good, too. And Travis is so touchy right now that a brush of wind against his skin would set him off.

       “Oh, my bad,” I say. “But yeah, I’ll do it. Do you need me to bring some fun stuff with me?”

       “No,” he replies quickly. “Not necessary. We’ll have everything you need.”

       “You’re going to hide all the fun stuff in the house, aren’t you?” I ask, leaning against the sink. “Say, what are you doing awake at two a.m.? Sophie said you didn’t have a show tonight.”

       “Ollie hasn’t been sleeping well.”

       I think of that little boy from last month, so small against Travis’s massive sofa.

       When my mom left, I was Ollie’s age, and my little brother Connor was a baby. Just three months. I never forgave her, and I’ll never forgive Ollie’s mom either.

       “What a cunt,” I mutter.

       “Excuse me?” he says.

       I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror.

Travis isn’t as much of a prude as he likes to pretend. He’s a sexy guy in the band. He plays the drums, for goodness’ sake, and the drums are a sensual instrument if ever there was one. All that banging around. All the sweating he does under those hot lights after moving his arms for an hour…

       Sweat’s sexy when you know a man’s worked for it.

       I really have attended a lot of Garbage Fire shows over the last month, so I can honestly say I’m not the only person who’s noticed the attractions of Travis. He’s a tall, fit man with hair that’s too long up top and shorter on the sides, and dark eyes that remind me of black holes. Even more intense when he’s lost to his music. 

       Sophie, obviously, only has eyes for her boyfriend, who’s the lead singer. Briar claims she’s disinterested in all men for the moment, but the band is popular, and there’s a group of women who show up for every single show. Admittedly, so do we, so I’m not judging. Just…noticing. Partly for Sophie’s sake, because if any of those women try to make a run on her man, I’m gonna cut a bitch. Metaphorically.

       There’s this one woman who’s always front and center, though, and she seems fixated on Travis. All the guys in the band know her, but I haven’t asked who she is…because I don’t want them to misinterpret my question and think I’m interested.

       “Hannah? Did you just call Ollie—”

       “Oh, no. I wasn’t talking about Ollie, obviously. He rocks. I was talking about his mother.”

       “I’m not sure that’s much better,” he says, firmly back on his high horse.

       “I didn’t call her a cunt in front of him,” I say, annoyed. “And I wouldn’t. But I think you and I can solidly agree that she’s a cunt.”
      “I don’t think I should answer that,” he says, but I can hear a thread of humor in his voice.

       “Plausible deniability. I got you. So what time do you need me tomorrow night?
      “From seven until ten-thirty, maybe eleven? Is that okay?”

       “Yup. Great. It’ll help make up for doing makeup in exchange for goat cheese and soap tonight. Do you like goat cheese?”

       “I’m suspicious of anyone who’d give you goat cheese in exchange for doing makeup, so I’m going with no.”
      “All right, you barrel of laughs, I’m going to go see if I can convince someone to give me a ride home. If not, I’ll have to find a goat to snuggle up with so I can sleep off this hard kombucha.”

       He groans, and I can practically feel his judgement radiating over the phone.

       I’m not gonna lie.

       It’s energetically feeding me.

       “Good night, Hannah,” he says.

       “Good night, Travis. Don’t be a hero. Take a few Benadryl if you need them.”

       “They’re for—”
      “I know what they’re for. I can read instructions. I just choose not to follow them.”

       “Delighted you’ll be working for me,” he says, his voice all husky, and there it is again—that trace of humor that saves him from being intolerable. And then he’s gone.

       I stare at myself in the mirror. “This is probably a terrible mistake.”

       “Are you still talking to yourself in there?” asks a guy from behind the door. “I need to pee.”

       “Isn’t the whole point of being a man that you don’t have to wait?”

 

 

Chapter Three

Travis

 

       A knock lands on the front door.

       “If you scare this one off, no Hannah tonight,” I tell Ollie, feeling like a jackass for negotiating with my son like he’s a terrorist. But desperate times call for bribery. He wants Hannah to be his nanny, but I had to beg to get her to babysit tonight. This isn’t a job she’ll want permanently, and I need someone who’s actually a trained childcare professional. The nanny who raised me had a degree from Norland College, which my mother liked to tell her friends was the “gold standard.” Nanny Grace was kind of frosty and a stickler for rules, but there was no denying she knew her shit.

I managed to schedule three interviews this weekend—one today, two tomorrow—with people who can start on Monday. I’m a bit concerned that anyone who’d be available to start immediately won’t be the best and brightest, but hopefully one of the three will be responsible and have references that actually like them.

       Rachel, the lady who’s at the door currently, works at a daycare but said she’d “leave them in a heartbeat” for fifty an hour. Her attitude suggests a lack of loyalty, but at least she has childcare experience.

       “Hannah’s the one who should be my nanny,” Ollie says sullenly, picking at the blanket splayed across the back of the sofa—a gift from my sister. “I’m going to ask her tonight.”

       “You’re not the one who’d be hiring her,” I tell him, moving his hand. “That would be me.”

       “Yes, we all know you’re the one with the power, Travis, and I’m your prisoner.”

       Is this what a seven-year-old is supposed to sound like? I realize he’s several grade levels above his classmates academically, but he’s still a kid. Half the time he sounds like a grumpy old man. I said as much to Rob, who laughed and told me the apple doesn’t fall far.

       I groan and rake my hands through my hair before taking a step toward the door.

       “Your birthmark’s showing.”

       Pausing, I give him an incredulous look. “Really, man?”

       “I’m not saying it to be mean,” he tells me, his face surprisingly earnest. “I just know you don’t like strangers seeing it.”

       I nod, feeling a tightness in my throat, then adjust my hair and head into the foyer and open the front door.

       It takes me a solid five seconds to square the woman in front of me with the professional headshot she has on LinkedIn.

       She has long blonde hair, like the woman in the photo, but she’s wearing full-on glamour makeup and a very short red summer dress with spiky heels.

       “You must be Travis,” she says, her voice low and throaty. “I’m Rachel.”

       It’s a mark of my desperation that I wave her inside instead of pretending to be someone else. I know when a woman’s done her research, and she’s obviously done hers. The bigger question is how she found out who I am—and whether she’s going to tell anyone else.

       “Here’s Ollie,” I say, leading into the living room and gesturing to my son, who’s still standing by the couch. He looks nonplused. Then again, Lilah’s the kind of woman who wears clothes like this to the grocery store. Maybe he thinks nothing of it.

       She plants her hands on her thighs and leans down, giving us both an unwanted view of her cleavage. “Well, aren’t you just the sweetest little thing. We’re going to be the very best of friends. I can tell.” She glances up at me, giving me an overdramatic wink before shifting her attention back to him.    

       Ollie watches her clinically for a moment, then says, “I don’t think so. You don’t have to pay your friends, and Travis isn’t looking for a friend for me. He wants to keep me out of trouble. I don’t think you could.”

       She looks pissed for a half second, but then she forces a laugh. “Oh, how funny. Isn’t he funny?” she asks me, still crouched over like that, as if I could have failed to notice she has C or maybe D-cup breasts.

       “Why are you crouched over like that?” Ollie asks.

       She stands but crosses her arms just under her chest, pushing her breasts up. “What a nice house you two have,” she comments, glancing around. “We’re gonna have such a good time in here, Ollie. What do you like to do? Do you enjoy playing music like your dad does? You’re so lucky to live with a professional musician.”

       He glances up at me as if to say, really, Travis? Is this the best you can do?

       Then he says: “I don’t know.”

       She grins, sweet as saccharine, “Well, do you know what, Ollie? It just so happens that I have a fun little music set I can bring over here, and we can make our own music together.”

       “Are you talking about one of those plastic kids’ sets?” he asks with withering contempt. “I’m a little old for that.”

       “I have recorders,” she says tightly. “Lots of grownups play recorders.”

       Ollie and I exchange a quick glance—he complained about the recorders used in music class at school, and I admitted I still have nightmares about the shrill plastic recorders handed out at my private school when I was a kid. He gives me a half smile that I return, feeling a surge of affection for him.

       “No thanks,” he says. “Do you like doing science experiments? I love chemical reactions. The messier, the better.”

She glances down at her dress. “Uh, yeah. Like baking soda and vinegar? I’ve done that before.”
      “And making gooey things. I love gooey things. We could get into a goo fight. That might be fun. Would you like that? Playing catch with goo?”

       She gives him a simpering smile. “I’m not much for playing catch, but you can throw it to yourself or your dad. We could read together, though. Do you know how to read?”

       “I’m seven,” he says flatly. Glancing up at me, he asks, “Hey, Travis, can I please go read quietly in my room by myself?”

       I nearly laugh.

       Instead, I nod. “Sure. Thanks for asking.”

       No point in having him hang around. I’ve already decided this is a no-go.

       I watch him head to his room, and he turns his head once before entering, mouthing “no”—which Rachel must notice.

       She reaches for my arm, her fingers grazing it, and I barely resist the impulse to pull away.

       “You poor thing,” she says, batting her lashes up at me. “It’s not easy being a single father, but I’ll take care of both of you, you’ll see. Do you need a live-in nanny?”

       I remove her hand. “No.”

       “Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone get little Paulie ready and out the door in the mornings?”

       Yes, dammit.

       “Ollie,” I correct.

       “Of course. Well, I’d be happy to live here if you change your mind. We could be true partners in Ollie’s care.”
      The sad thing is that it’s tempting. It would be so easy to hand the reins over to someone else—and if she’s after my father’s fortune, then she’d be more likely to put up with Ollie’s antics than Nannys One through Three. But I don’t want her to be nice to my kid because she thinks she can get something from it. Screw that.

       “No,” I say tightly. “I don’t want a stranger living in my home.”

       She looks taken aback. “But we wouldn’t be strangers for long. We’d have plenty of time to get to know each other while Ollie’s sleeping—”

       “He doesn’t sleep much.”

       “I can help with that.”

       I shudder at the thought of her force-feeding him melatonin like Nurse Ratchett so she can make an unwanted pass at me in my living room.

       She’s hot, and I haven’t been with a woman for months, but nothing turns me off more than a woman who’d use Ollie to get to my father’s money. I don’t like being used either, but this is many orders of magnitude worse.

       “No, that’s okay,” I say. “In fact, I don’t think this is going to work out.”

       She pushes her bottom lip out, which probably isn’t as sexy as she thinks it is. “He’d like me if he got to know me better.” Reaching for my arm again, she wraps her hand around my bicep. “You’d really like me.”

       I remove her hand pointedly. “I don’t think I would. How’d you find out?”

       “Find out what?” she asks, suddenly all innocence.

       “About my father. It’s obvious you know who he is.”

       I have his last name, sure, but it’s a common enough last name.

       “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, lifting her eyebrows in a mockery of innocence.

       “I think you do.”

       Her expression hardens. “The only thing I know about you is that you’re in that band with the awful name and your son’s a horrible little brat.”

       “Nice,” I say with a nod. “The truth comes out. He’s a good kid, actually, and very talented at seeing through artificial people. Speaking of…would you have worn that for your interview at the daycare?”

       She gasps in outrage. “How dare you comment on my clothing.”

       “Yeah, that was kind of a crappy thing to do, but I guess I take offense to people walking into my house and insulting my son. Have the day you deserve, Rachel.”

       Rage flashes in her eyes, and she grabs a bouncy ball off the side table next to the couch—there are hundreds stowed all around the house now—and hurls it at me. I catch it easily, my reflexes honed by years of drumming.

       “See, you can play catch!” Ollie says, swinging his door, which must’ve been slightly cracked, wide.

       She grabs another ball, and before she can even aim it at him, I wrap my fingers around her wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but no, she will not be throwing a ball at my son.

       “Go,” I say firmly.

       “You’re an asshole.”

       “And you shouldn’t be swearing in front of children.”

       She stalks off but looks over her shoulder before rounding the corner toward the front door. “I’m going to warn all of my nanny boards about you.”

       Oh, freaking fantastic.

       Then she leaves and slams the door loud enough to shake the house.

       Ollie comes running out of his room, a huge grin on his face. “That was awesome, Travis.”

       And, just like that, my kid gives me a high five.

       It’s the first time he’s touched me on purpose since he got here. Emotion swells in my throat. He’s looking at me like he’s actually glad I’m his father.

       It’s because I was rude to someone, but at least she deserved it.

       “Why does she care about your father, though?” he asks. “Hasn’t he been dead forever?”

       I laugh under my breath at his typical candor. “No, not forever. He died just before you were born, though, so I guess for you it has been forever.”

       “Did he have an accident?”

       “No, he was sixty when my parents got married. Older, like your d—”

       Like your dad, I almost said.

       The look on his face says he knows it, and regret nearly chokes me.

       That man is not Ollie’s father in any way that matters. He abandoned him without a backward glance.

       “He’s not my dad,” he says, his voice hard. “And neither are you.”

       He turns back toward his room, and I want so badly to stop him. To tell him that I’m trying. That I want to be his dad, but I don’t know how yet…

       “Ollie,” I call, my voice thick with all those things I can’t seem to say. “I’m trying,” I manage.

       “I know,” he says, pausing without turning around. “Thank you for letting Hannah come tonight and for being nice to me.”

       I watch him disappear into his room. The warm moment between us is already slipping away, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

 

***

 

       Hannah arrives in yoga pants and an oversized Asheville Tourists baseball T-shirt tied at the corner. She looks like she’s still hungover from whatever alcoholic kombucha she was drinking last night. Still hot, though, because she’s a red-headed spitfire with wild green eyes and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. I’ve always liked freckles—like constellations in the sky—but I don’t want to like her freckles. Or her round ass, cupped by her yoga pants. Or the sassy smile on her face that seems to challenge everyone around her to war.

       She looks good, but I’ve seen her out enough times to know she likes clothes and makeup. Short, bright dresses and pants that hug her every curve. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she changed into this outfit specifically to send the message that she doesn’t want to impress me.

This is her way of saying she’s here for Ollie, and Ollie alone. It’s the complete opposite of what Rachel did, and it’s honestly a huge relief.

       Unfortunately, it’s not having the intended effect. If anything, it’s making me more aware of having a sexy woman in my house, when it’s been so long since I had one in my bed.

       “Hannah!” Ollie says, running up and wrapping his hands around her waist. Hugging her as if they’re long lost pals. “Thank goodness you’re finally here.”

       She laughs and hugs him before pulling back and whirling him around. “Look at you! I swear you grew half an inch since I last saw you. How’s school treating you?”

       “It’s very boring,” he says. “They keep teaching us about things I already know, and the other kids don’t talk to me because Mickey told them I sleep in the sewers.”

       “You didn’t tell me about that,” I say, stricken.

       He’s being bullied, and Mrs. Applebaum didn’t say anything? She’s sure as hell been communicative about everything he’s supposedly doing wrong.

       I’m having an ongoing conversation with both her and her principal about what to do with Ollie. He’s in second grade, but the work is much too easy for him, and when he gets bored, he finds “unproductive” ways to entertain himself.

       “I tried,” he says hotly, his arms still wrapped around Hannah. “He’s the one who thinks the Ninja Mutant Turtles are real.”

       “He probably only said that to convince your teacher he  thinks it’s a compliment to say you sleep in the sewers,” Hannah says, her eyes alight with fury. “I think you should do him the compliment of a nickname like Turtle Boy. Or, better yet, we can get some turtle costumes from one of those Halloween stores and scare the—”

       “Hannah.” 

       She turns toward me, her expression a five-alarm fire. “You’re seriously telling me to let this go?”

       “No.” I rub my temples, which suddenly ache. I’m tempted to ask why she cares so much, but I’m guessing Hannah’s the type of person who’d throw her entire personality into any cause she decides she believes in. “I’m going to have another talk with his teacher.”

       “They call people who tattle to teachers snitches,” Ollie says with a sigh.

       “In second grade?” I ask in disbelief.

       Damn. Our middle school students at The Missing Beat are like that, but I’d expected kids this young to be kinder, or maybe I’d just hoped they would be.

       “I can get my brother Liam to walk into class with you a couple of times,” Hannah says. “He’s an amateur boxer, and I bet that little assh—jerk…”

       “You already said the bad part of the word,” I mutter.

       Ignoring me, she finishes, “He won’t know what hit him.”

       “What about me?” I ask. “Why don’t I just walk him in?”

       Technically, I’m not supposed to. I drop him off in the cafeteria, and the kids walk to class from there, but I have every intention of talking my way into it.

       She gives me a weighing look, head to toe, her eyes blazing fire through me as she studies me and finds me inadequate.
      “I mean, you’re tall and strong, sure,” she says. “And I’d be pretty intimidated if I were a twerpy little second grader who makes up lies, but Liam takes it to a whole different level.”

       “Do you think he’d do it?” Ollie asks, buzzing with excitement at the thought of some other guy defending him.

       Shit, I feel like I’m failing again.

       “Of course he would,” Hannah says. “He’s desperate to get on my good side.” Her gaze falls on me, though. Lingers. And I feel her eyes shoveling past my barriers. Seeing what I wish she wouldn’t. Turning back to Ollie, she says, “But, you know, your dad probably has a super cool plan for humbling this kid. You should give him a shot first. Travis can be very crafty when he wants to be.”

       I’m grateful. I’m annoyed. I’m a little turned on by her, which is ridiculous. She’s been here for all of five minutes, and she’s already causing trouble.

       Ollie is also talking more than he has in weeks, and she just gave me an opening—and is now giving me the most obvious don’t fuck it up eyes I’ve ever seen.

       “I’d like that, Ollie,” I say. “Are you okay with letting me handle it?”

       I expect him to say no. Or to point out that I haven’t handled any other aspect of parenting well, so why should this be any different? But he nods. “Okay. But shouldn’t you leave, Travis? It’s seven o’clock. Uncle Rob’s probably waiting for you.”

       “His bedtime routine starts at eight o’clock,” I say, pushing my hair back, then forward again when I remember Hannah’s here. “I left a few pages of instructions in the kitchen.”

       “A few pages about how to get a kid to bed?” she asks, her eyes dancing. “I think Ollie and I can manage.” She thrusts a plastic bag at me. “Will you give this to my brother?”

       “Sure, no problem.”

       “Now, go bang it out. We’ll be waiting for you.”

       This woman’s going to kill me.

​

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