by K. S. Thomas
“Well, that’s what you get for eating oatmeal in your bed at night,” Greer responds, apparently not as thrown by the announcement as I was.
“Listen, I love Cheese, but I’d really prefer my bed was a cheese-free zone when I get back.”
“I’m on it,” Greer promises. “No Cheese for you tonight.”
The door closes, and we’re alone again.
Monroe’s been busy examining a basket of children’s books she found by the coffee table (the nanny thing seems to be for real at least) so I take the time to revisit the topic Mallory only just closed the door on. Literally.
“I’m sorry. Why is there cheese in her bed? And what does it have to do with oatmeal? Does she put cheese in her oatmeal? Like, a savory oatmeal?” I like savory, but that sounds disgusting.
Greer laughs. “She doesn’t eat Cheese. Cheese eats the oatmeal.” Then, without explaining what clearly needs more clarification, she just turns and walks away, heading straight for Mallory’s room. A few seconds later, she reemerges.
She walks all the way back to the breakfast bar, before turning halfway to show me her back and the rodent clawing its way up her shirt to her shoulder. “This is Cheese.”
“That’s a rat.” I try not to physically shudder, having already insulted her plenty for one morning.
“He is indeed.” She turns her head until she’s nose to nose with the thing. It’s white, with a long pink tail and glowing red eyes. “You’re not scared of rats, are you?”
“Of course not.” A little disgusted maybe. But scared? No. “Just confirm that he’s a legit pet and not something that started hanging around because Mallory has a collection of half-eaten oatmeal bowls covering every surface of her bedroom.”
Her big brown eyes get smaller, and they dart from side to side like she’s a trapped animal searching for a way out.
“Oh, my God.” I start moving for my kid. She’s happily perusing their living room, oblivious to the pest infestation, but I’m fully prepared to snatch her up and get her the hell out of here, even if it does mean not putting her down again until we get to my mother’s and another child-safe household.
Greer giggles behind me. “Calm down, you big drama queen.”
I stop, halfway between her and Monroe, and look back at her over my shoulder. I’m not aborting my mission just yet. “If you have a rat problem here, I’m not letting my kid play on your floor,” I hiss under my breath.
“The only rat problem we have is Cheese sneaking into Mal’s bed at night trying to steal a bite of her oatmeal,” she says grimacing. “Mal likes Cheese just fine, just not as much as she likes her late-night snacks, that she does in fact clean up after. So, the potential stealing of her food while she’s eating it is where the real problem lies. Which then, hardly seems like a rat problem anymore and more like a Mal problem.” She pauses to grab the rat with her free hand, the one not holding the coffee cup, and carefully untangles him from her hair where he’s apparently been trying to nest. “Cheese was supposed to be a snake snack and I saved him. So, now we’re buds for life.”
“How is it you can use so many words to explain something and still somehow wind up leaving me with more questions than I had before you opened your mouth?” I ask, still staying near Monroe, but only because she’s bringing me one of the books from the basket now.
“It’s a talent.” Greer shrugs. “I come by it naturally.”
“I’m sure.” I lower myself down to be at eye level with Monroe who’s smiling and jabbering on, pretending to read the storybook to me. “Are you really going to make me ask how you saved the rat’s life from a snake? Here? In the city? Where snakes aren’t exactly slithering across your path at every turn?”
“I mean, I don’t want to just ramble on unless I know there’s real interest in what I have to say,” she teases, coming to join us in the living room where she plops down into the couch a second later. “But since you mentioned it, I was on a date with this guy, or more specifically, I was about to go on a date with this guy. When I got to his place, I was a little early, and he asked if I could wait a few minutes. He had to feed his snake.” She pulls her feet up onto the sofa and tucks them under her. “Well, I like to be accommodating when possible, so of course, I said yes. Until I saw what he was feeding the snake.” She glances down at the white rodent now curled up in her lap. “I screamed, snatched Cheese from his grip and ran out of there.”
“I take it that was the end of your relationship?”
“It was a pretty mutual decision at that point.” She leans into the cushions, grinning. “Alright. Your turn.”
“My turn for what?” I don’t really have any tales of rat rescues to share.
“To talk about yourself.” Her eyes move for Monroe, who handed me the book when she was done with it and took off to find another. “Or anything else you’d like to tell me about.”
“Chase didn’t have a chance to answer all your questions before I showed up, huh?” I ask, getting up to take the last few steps to the couch where I have a seat as well.
“You know, I think he had a chance to answer plenty. But he was being all sorts of cagey about it. Like he wanted to protect your privacy or something.” She rolls her eyes, like privacy is a concept she hardly deems important. Then she smirks and I know she’s well aware how invasive some might consider her prodding. “The whole thing’s a little shady if you ask me. Surprise secret brother no one knew about. With a baby.”
“I’m sorry, don’t you mean, surprise hot secret brother?” I’m not really that ego driven. Mostly I’m just hoping if I make her just slightly uncomfortable, she’ll get flustered and start rambling again, relieving me of having to do any of the talking here.
My efforts fall by the wayside though when she takes my comment in stride. “Actually, that part he explained. Different genetics. One hot brother. One Chase.” Her face turns serious. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
“Don’t tell me you said what?” my brother comes strolling in, door swinging open just in time for him to hear his name be mentioned. “Never mind, don’t answer now. Tell me on the way. We have to leave, like, five minutes ago, if we want to get there when the cinnamon rolls come out of the oven. And I do,” he clarifies, “want to get there for that.”
CHAPTER THREE
GREER
“So,” Mal prods, “how was hanging out with Chase’s hot secret brother?”
“Lachlan,” I say. I like saying it. I don’t know that I’ve ever encountered a better match between a name and a person before. He’s just so...Lachlan. “And we didn’t really hang out as much as he lingered around waiting for Chase to get ready so they could leave.” At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
“You don’t think it’s a little weird that he would linger around our apartment waiting for Chase and not Chase’s?” Mal tugs at one of many loose strand thoughts I’ve tried to keep tucked away in my brain since this morning.
“Not so weird when our apartment has coffee. And is baby proof.” Those two answers have been running on repeat in my mind every time my crushing girl brain asks that same question. And I am. Crushing. As much as I hate to admit it. Lachlan got to me. Somewhere between dissecting fairy tales and watching his toddler pretend to read to him, he got to me.
“Still a little weird,” Mal insists, making a face at me. “Unless of course he had other reasons for stalling on his departure.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me. That alone, would make her look ridiculous. But she’s also had tomato sauce on her chin and spinach leaves in her hair for the last half hour. The wiggling eyebrows are just taking her over the top now.
“I can’t talk to you while you’re cooking.” I hand her a towel. At the very least, the sauce must go. She’s making her famous vegetarian lasagna and she can’t cook anything without wearing half of it before she’s done. “Also, why are you making two pans?”
She wipes her face more thoroughly than necessary before tossing the towel near the sink. “
Because there are two extra people to feed tonight, and we barely have enough for four of us when I only make one pan.”
“You think we’re still having Sunday night dinner together?” We’ve been having family style meals every Sunday for years, taking turns with cooking from week to week. “I just figured it was off since Chase has company.”
Mallory frowns. “Wasn’t off when my mom was visiting two months ago.”
“That was different,” I insist. “We wanted her to make her perogies and Sunday night dinner was the perfect opportunity to convince her to cook.”
“Okay, what about when Abbas’s sisters pass through. We never skip dinner when they’re around. Just add more chairs to the table,” she argues. She’s less committed now. I can tell because she’s back to layering her veggies.
“Also, not the same,” I counter. “They all live within driving distance. It’s not a big deal when they visit. And they always bring side-dishes when they come on Sundays. They know about dinner. They come prepared. They expect to eat.”
She gracefully flings the last slice of zucchini into the second pan then takes another brief break from layering her lasagna to stare at me. “Can we stop arguing about this and start talking about the real issue here?”
Instinctively, I pull away from the counter before I respond, “What’s the real issue?”
Mallory rolls her eyes and reaches for the open box of pasta to continue her work. “You like a boy even though you decided you wouldn’t like a boy until you landed an acting gig that would allow you to quit nannying. And even though you made big announcements about swearing off love and not focusing on anything but your career for the foreseeable future, now, for the foreseeable future, all you want to focus on is a boy. But you can’t admit that. Because of said big announcement.”
I purse my lips stubbornly. “That’s not the real issue. That’s a non-issue. It’s not even a thing. Even if I did like a boy, which I’m not saying I do, the foreseeable future allotted to focusing on him would be a total of five or six days. Why would I bother paying any attention at all to a boy who won’t even be here longer than a week?”
Mallory shrugs. “Because you’re a hopeless romantic who believes in fairy tales to the depths of your being?”
I do have that going against me. I blame my father. He would argue it’s one of my most valuable traits, but he’s not exactly rooted in reality. Or dating. Regardless, it was that very part of me that became the driving force behind my big announcement about swearing off romance in the first place. “I don’t like him,” I insist.
“Then why are you trying to cancel family dinner night?”
“I’m not. I was merely suggesting that it might be canceled all on its own.” I start to back out of the kitchen. Halfway between the breakfast bar and the sofa, I turn around and start facing where I’m walking again. At least until I’m close enough to plop myself into the couch cushions. “But since it’s clearly not, by all means, carry on with your double lasagnas. I’ll just be over here. Focusing on my lines. For my audition. You know, for the sake of my career and all.”
Thankfully, Abbas chooses this very moment to come barging in through the front door.
“They need you over there,” he announces, pointing at me.
Maybe I’m not thankful he’s here after all. “Why?”
“Baby emergency.” He plugs his ears as he says it.
“A tantrum and screaming fit is not an emergency,” I say dryly, assessing the situation from his reaction.
“I beg to differ,” he says, his face still pulled into a pained expression. “I also beg for you to come over and make it stop. Apparently, her highness likes her hair a certain way and daddy doesn’t know how to do it.”
“Her highness, huh?” I roll my eyes at his antics. Growing up in a family of nine left Abbas with little patience for those on the more spoiled end of the childhood spectrum. “What makes you think I’ll be able to do her hair the way she likes. I’ve only ever seen the kid with bedhead.”
He marches toward the couch and grabs my wrist, trying to tug me into a standing position. “You’re a nanny to four girls and you do all of their hair. I know. We all know. You complain about it all the time. The whining during the brushing. The insane requests for insta-inspired updos. The constant begging to curl or straighten or crimp or tousle. You can do a two-year-old’s hair. She probably just wants pigtails or some shit.”
I let him drag me out of the comforts of my sofa cushion. “Abbas you know a lot about hair for a dude who keeps his head nearly clean shaven.”
“I know the standard amount about hair for a dude with eight sisters,” he grumbles. “Please. Come. Put a stop to the insanity.” He practically drags me through the living room, only stopping briefly when we pass by the kitchen. “Are you making lasagna for family dinner?”
“Uh-huh.” Mal looks up from stirring the cheese sauce.
“You’re making extra, right?” Abbas looks worried. “Since Lachlan and Monroe are eating with us? That dude is big. And he can really eat. I know, I’ve shared many a meal with the God of Thunder lookalike. And I don’t want to have to give up my seconds.”
Mallory doesn’t even answer him, just stares at me. “Told you it was a two-pan dinner night.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have time for I told you so’s. I have a toddler hair emergency to tend to.” I wiggle out of Abbas’s grip and hurry from the apartment all on my own. No need to get caught up in another discussion about my reasons for suggesting family dinner might be canceled due to extra family being present on family dinner night which seems to imply all family is welcome in the title.
I’m across the hall and walking into the apartment opposite my own within seconds. Once inside, I just follow the sound of screaming to the back bedroom. It’s usually not used for sleeping in, just a pretend office neither Abbas nor Chase really has use for, but I suppose it comes in handy when there’s unexpected company.
“Why are we torturing the child?” I demand jokingly as soon as I step into the room and take in the scene before me.
Chase is on his hands and knees picking up more hair ties, bobby pins, mini-clips, plastic barrettes and scrunchies than I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m guessing there was some sort of hair accessory bag explosion prior to my arrival. Meanwhile, Lachlan is lying flat on his stomach, head under the bed, where I have to assume, based on screaming and his positioning, Monroe has taken to hiding.
“I think we’re the ones being tortured here,” Chase remarks loudly.
“Everyone out,” I announce, shouting to be heard over Monroe’s high-pitched wailing. “We need some one-on-one girl talk to sort this mess out.”
Chase is all too happy to escape the room, Lachlan however, seems hesitant to retreat from his efforts.
“I can handle this,” he says stubbornly, still down on the floor, but no longer lying flat in surrender.
“I’m sure you can.” I’m not sure. Actually, the longer I’m in here, and the more I can see the toddler rage unleashed about this room, the more sure I am he can’t. But that’s not something you ever tell the parent. Nanny 101 right here. “But that doesn’t mean you have to. Let me help you. You’ve had a long weekend and being a single parent is hard. It’s okay to let someone else step in and offer you a little break now and again.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just huffs as he pushes himself up from the floor and to his feet. “I’m going to take three minutes to calm down. Then I’ll be right back to take over again.”
“Of course.” I nod, smiling. In three minutes, I’ll be done.
As soon as the door closes behind him, I lower myself to the floor in the center of the room. Crossing my legs to get comfortable, I start perusing the collection of hair accessories surrounding me, commenting on the ones I like, dismissing the ones I don’t.
I pay no attention at all to Monroe, who went silent the second her father left and who has started to crawl out from under the bed already.
I can see her out of the corner of my eye, even if I’m purposely keeping my attention on the hair ties and barrettes.
Only when she’s scooching herself into a seated position beside me, do I start chatting with her. “I like these butterfly ones, do you?”
She nods, taking the small clip from my hand and trying to put it in her own hair.
“Very pretty.” I brush a few messy strands out of her tear-streaked face. She’s exhausted and I can’t help but wonder how screwed up her sleep schedule is from traveling. “Is that how you like your hair? With butterflies?”
She nods, sniffing as she leans forward to pull a few more from the scattered mess that surrounds us. “Butterfies and rose bubs,” she mumbles in her toddler jargon. Every kid has their own version of it, and it always gets easier to understand the more you hear it. Monroe’s isn’t too jumbled. I should be able to crack it.
“Butterflies and rose bubs? Rose buds?”
She nods, clipping another butterfly into her hair. I scan the assortment of clips. There are loads of butterflies. And I see daisies. But no roses.
“Which is your favorite rose?” I ask, hoping she’ll help me out by just pointing at what she means, but she just frowns, looking confused.
Then, she takes both hands and holds them on her head, one on each side like a set of Micky Mouse ears. “Rose bubs go like dis.”
Ah, I think I’m starting to understand now. I smile. “Monroe, will you let me put rose buds and butterflies in your hair?”
She nods slowly, fingers grabbing at another butterfly which she picks up and hands to me.
“Perfect choice.” I stretch out my arm to reach the brush lying abandoned on the desk chair. “Why don’t you come have a seat right here,” I say, patting at my lap for her to come sit. Monroe picks two more butterflies off the floor and then wobbles her little body over, dropping her weight in a plop right where my ankles connect, making a sturdy pad for her little tush to land on. With the hair mystery solved, I get to work, quickly forming her soft waves of silky red hair into tiny bulbs on the top of her head. She doesn’t have enough of it to do much else, but I can easily see how this do has been compared to butterflies and rose buds.