by Tara Sivec
As soon as I step down out of my dad’s truck in front of the Hastings’ farmhouse, all the trepidation about dealing with Mia and Grace today, as well as dealing with their equally annoying father, disappear in an instant when I hear Ember’s voice.
I have just enough time to close the truck door and brace myself before she slams into me, wraps her arms around my waist, and hugs me tightly to her. We stand in the driveway hugging and laughing, and it feels like no time at all has passed since the last time I saw her. She still smells like Beautiful from Este Lauder, and I don’t even try to hide the fact that I’m sniffing her hair, which makes her laugh even harder as we continue squeezing the life out of each other. She started buying that shit with the money she earned on the farm when we were teenagers, because it was the fanciest perfume they sold at the White Timber drug store, and I love that nothing has changed in that aspect.
I also love that my chin can still rest comfortably on top of her head. Since she’s just barely five feet tall, I always used to call her my little wood sprite and tease her about how I could put her in my pocket and take her everywhere with me. People in town used to joke and call us twins, even though it was glaringly obvious we weren’t. Ember is a tiny midget, and I’m 5’8”. She has light blonde hair with natural caramel highlights, and I have dark brown hair that’s almost closer to black. She has chocolate brown eyes, and I have light blue eyes that are so pale they’re more gray than blue.
When we finally pull apart, she holds tightly to my hands and gives them a squeeze as we continue staring at each other. I’m not really an emotional person, but right now, standing here with Ember on her family’s farm, I have to swallow back the tears. I never realized until just this moment how much I missed her hugs. Or hugging people in general. New Yorkers air kiss each other’s cheeks or give firm handshakes. They don’t hug. Not even people who have known each other for years. I had a friend in college named Stephanie. We roomed together all four years and even shared an apartment together for three years after we graduated. I considered her one of my closest friends in my entire life, second to Ember. When she got married and moved to Staten Island, it was like she moved to another country. We spoke on the phone every once in a while, but the next time I actually saw her in person was a few years ago at a grand opening for a restaurant. It was the first time we’d seen each other in three years, and when I leaned in to give her a hug, she put her arm out between us and awkwardly patted my shoulder.
That memory makes me quickly let go of Ember’s hands, wrap my arms around her, and give her another big hug.
“I missed you so much. Quick, tell me how shitty of a friend I am and how much you hate me before I start crying,” I tell her, taking another big sniff of her hair before finally letting her go.
“You’re a shitty friend and I hate you. Especially because your boobs are still nice and perky and I could bounce a quarter off your ass,” she complains.
I laugh and shake my head at her.
“You’re not supposed to compliment me. You’re supposed to make me feel like crap. You suck at this.”
“Fine. I can see your roots, and holy shit! Is that a gray hair?” she asks with wide eyes as she stands up on her toes and reaches her hand out toward the top of my head.
I quickly smack her hand away, but I still can’t wipe the smile off my face, even though she insulted my hair.
“Sorry, that’s the best I can do. I think you’ve had enough things going on in your life to make you feel like crap. You don’t need my help.” She shrugs.
That’s all it takes for the smile to slowly disappear from my face.
“Fuck. You know,” I moan.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure I’m the only person in White Timber with Wi-Fi and a smartphone. I got the Google alert as soon as the first person uploaded that punch to SnapChat,” she explains.
If Ember knows, that means Clint knows. I’m really not all that upset about Ember knowing about my pathetic drama, but the fact that Clint has one more weapon in his arsenal to use against me makes me want to run to the nearest bushes and throw up. I can’t let that guy have the upper hand, or I’ll never survive the rest of this summer.
Sensing my mounting panic, Ember quickly grabs my arm and squeezes it reassuringly.
“I didn’t tell anyone. I know we haven’t really kept in touch very well all these years, but I still love you. I wouldn’t do that to you. Besides, you’ve always kept all of my secrets,” she reminds me with a smile.
“Like the first time you gave a blow job freshman year, and then immediately threw up in the guy’s lap after he finished.” I laugh.
“Oh, God. Danny Meyers. It tasted like onions. I still can’t even smell onions without wanting to barf.” She winces.
“Or how you lost your virginity sophomore year to Ryan Andrews, in the back of Clint’s car that you borrowed, and we told him we washed the interior for him because Stacy St. Peter got drunk and peed all over the back seat.”
“Poor Stacy. He always called her Stacy St. Pee-Pee after that,” Ember says with a shake of her head.
“And that time after prom junior year, when you told your parents you were staying at my house, and you spent the night at a hotel with Carson Jameson. You called me at two in the morning to come get you because you had to take Carson to the emergency room.” I cackle.
“I tried to be all cool and sexy and roll us over in bed without breaking our love connection, and the poor guy fell off the bed and cracked his head wide open on the nightstand. Jesus, why do all my deep, dark secrets involve sex?” she complains.
“Because you were very generous. With your vagina,” I joke. “And look at you now. You’re a married woman with… kids, and shit.”
She rolls her eyes and lets out a quiet chuckle.
“I have a kid. He’s seven and his name is Lincoln. I see you still have a deep love of children. Are you sure you want to watch my nieces all summer? They’re adorable and I love them, but they scare the shit out of me.”
“Speaking of the little angels, where are they this morning?” I ask, glancing nervously around, expecting one of them to pop out from behind a tree and stab me, or smear something disgusting all over me.
I smartly took Mrs. Sherwood’s advice and picked out my least fancy outfit to wear today, which was a struggle. Living in New York for so long and attending so many events, I didn’t exactly keep any farm appropriate clothing in my closet. Until I got my first paycheck and could run to the general store in town and stock up on cheap jeans, T-shirts, and a pair of cowboy boots, my black, cropped Nike yoga pants, and the white Gucci tee I’d managed to get all the coffee stains out of, along with my black, sparkly Gucci flip flops would have to do. I seriously considered showing up wearing an apron over my clothes, with elbow-length rubber gloves, a hairnet, and a hospital mask over my face, but thought that might be overkill.
“They’re probably out doing their morning chores. We’ll have some time for me to give you a quick tour of all the new stuff on the farm, and give you a few tips on how to stay alive while you’re with them, before I have to pick up Lincoln from daycare,” she jokes with a smile as she slips her arm through mine, and we start to head toward the big red barn an acre away from the house.
Sadly, it’s not all that funny. I’m really afraid I might die within an hour of being alone with them.
“Auntie Cole! Auntie Cole!”
We both pause and look up when we hear Mia shouting for Ember, and I try not to groan when I see her running toward us, with Clint following right behind.
Today, he’s wearing a green Henley with the long sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and sweet Jesus, can we all say arm porn? Where in the hell did those forearms come from? And with the way that cotton shirt molds to his body, he’s got some nice chest porn going on too. He’s wearing the white cowboy hat again, and he’s shaved the scruff from his face, which gives him chiseled jaw porn. As Mia throws herself at Ember and she
scoops her up into her arms, I watch all my porn fantasies saunter toward me and hope to God I don’t have drool dripping down my chin.
Think about that time he tripped you at the homecoming game. Or that time he made fun of your little black dress. Or that time he asked you if you wanted a shovel when you got your second helping of mashed potatoes at dinner. Or that time he told Bobby Chapman you had herpes, and Bobby conveniently “forgot” about your date to the movies. Or that time you almost kissed the day you graduated from high school.
Shit! No! Don’t think about that!
“Well, would you look at that. Fancy pants came back.” Clint smirks, sliding his hands in the back pockets of his jeans when he stops in front of us.
Stop looking at his lips, stop looking at his lips!
“How’s it going, Cunty Clint?” I ask with a sassy smile, crossing my arms in front of me, using the nickname I gave him when I was in seventh grade, making sure to whisper the nickname so Mia can’t hear me.
See? I’m already excelling as a nanny.
Sure, seventh grade might be a little young to learn about that word, but when his mother got him a birthday cake and the bakery smushed all the letters of Clint together until it very obviously looked like it said “Happy Birthday, Cunt” in sparkly blue frosting, and his mother called the bakery and screamed at them for fifteen minutes, I considered it a very educational day.
I know, it’s a dumb nickname, but it always pissed him off.
Unfortunately, that smirk just grows bigger until it’s a full-blown smile, and since he shaved his stupid face, now I can see both of his stupid dimples.
“I do know my way around one, so thank you for the compliment,” he tells me with a wink.
Nope, nope, nope. Do not think about Cunty Clint knowing his way around any of your parts.
“It’s always nice to see you, Cookie Brookie,” he adds, making me grind my teeth and glare at him.
Leave it to Clint to use a nickname that’s even worse than the one I gave him. Sure, it sounds all cute and sweet, but Clint knows damn well it’s not. Let’s just say, that picture of me passed out with my underwear showing wasn’t the first time my goods were on display for everyone to see.
Every year, the Rotary Club in town puts on a dinner at the end of the summer. It’s a big event, and everyone in town goes. They set up a huge tent outside on the town square, and after dinner, all the different high school groups get up in front of everyone and perform for the first time after practicing all summer. The band plays a few melodies, the choir sings a few songs, the cheerleaders perform a dance routine, and so on and so forth. After that, they let a few of the seniors play DJ for the rest of the night, and everyone dances and generally has a good time.
As a cheerleader who’d made the varsity squad for my upcoming tenth grade year, I was extremely excited to show off the dance routine we’d been working our asses off on all summer. So excited, that I forgot to put on my spanky pants. In case you don’t know what spanky pants are, they’re basically a polyester pair of underwear the same color as your cheerleading uniform that you wear over your real underwear so you’re not flashing everyone when you do a leg kick or a toe touch. I was so into that damn dance routine, and was nailing every single move, that I had no clue until it was over that everyone in the crowd was pointing and laughing at me the entire time. Not only did I continuously flash the audience every time I moved, but I did it wearing a pair of bright blue Cookie Monster underwear, with Cookie Monster’s face shoveling in a mouthful of chocolate chip cookies right over my crotch.
“Hope you’re ready for your first day of work, Cookie Brookie,” Clint laughs, repeating that stupid nickname again, like he just wants to get punched in the face.
“We heard you the first time, moron. Still not funny,” Ember tells him, sticking up for me as she sets Mia back on the ground.
“Do you like cookies? I love cookies! Can I call you Cookie Brookie?” Mia asks excitedly as she throws herself against my leg and wraps her arms around it.
Clint just laughs as I awkwardly pat the top of Mia’s head, which is, of course, sticky. I quickly pull my hand away and try to discreetly wipe whatever that shit is off my palm by rubbing it against the back of Mia’s shirt.
Whatever. Don’t judge me. The kid is already filthy; it’s not like it even matters. She’s covered in dirt, and there’s hay sticking out of her hair like she spent her morning rolling around in the horse barn. Which she probably did. The first item on my nanny agenda is going to be giving her a bath every day. Possibly every hour. Maybe even every time she walks out of a room.
Ember grabs Mia’s hand and starts pulling her toward the house.
“I’m just gonna hose her off before I leave,” she tells me, which makes me want to get down on my knees and kiss the ground she walks on. “I’ll stop back and give you the grand tour later.”
I realize as she walks away that she’s leaving me alone with Clint, and my need to worship her dies a quick, painful death. I’d rather roll around in the horse barn with Mia and whatever the fuck got in her hair than be alone with him.
As soon as Ember and Mia disappear into the house, Clint steps right up into my personal space until the toes of his cowboy boots are up against my bare toes sticking out of my flip-flips. He’s standing so close that if I take a deep breath, my boobs will bump into his chest. I’d like to insult him like I did yesterday and tell him he smells like shit, but my brain has suddenly gone to mush. He doesn’t smell like horse shit. Not even close. I know he’s been working all around the farm this morning and he should stink to high heaven, but of course he doesn’t. He smells like soap and a hint of woodsy cologne that makes me want to hump the nearest tree and become one with nature, thanking the good Lord for inventing cedar and sandalwood and making it smell so delicious.
I’m tall, but Clint is at least five inches taller than me. I make the mistake of looking up at him and those damn green eyes of his. They practically twinkle as I stare right into them when he bends his face down closer to mine, until I can feel his warm breath tickling my cheek as he whispers close to my ear.
“I promised Mia that her new nanny was looking forward to getting her makeup done by her. We took a trip to the general store last night, and Mia is very excited to see how you look in electric blue eyeshadow and hot pink lipstick.”
When he’s finished whispering these rubbish sweet-nothings in my ear, he steps back away from me with a smile, turns, and starts heading back toward the barn, whistling as he goes.
And stupid me, instead of coming up with an amazing insult to fire back at him, all I do is stand here in the front yard like an idiot and stare at his ass as he goes.
This is just bullshit.
Chapter 6
Sugar High Life
“Mia is the easy one,” Ember said. “She won’t give you any trouble,” Ember promised.
Ember is a fucking liar and I’m seriously questioning rekindling our friendship right now.
I should be happy she at least washed the girl down before she fled the scene and left me here alone, but that quick bath Ember gave her was shot to shit less than ten minutes after she left. Seriously, how can one tiny child manage to find anything and everything that will make her dirty as soon as I turn my back? She currently has peanut butter in her hair that I already washed out twice. I even hid the damn peanut butter behind the cereal on the top shelf of the giant walk-in pantry, so I have no idea where she’s finding this shit.
In the last several hours, I’ve learned that Mia is five and Grace is ten. Not that this knowledge gives me any kind of insight on what the hell I’m supposed to be doing with them, but it will give me an idea of where to start in my next Google search later tonight. I’ve also learned that Mia loves cats, but only orange cats. She wants to work at McDonald’s when she grows up so she can eat free french fries forever and ever. She got bit by a mosquito last night and it itches really bad. Her favorite color is anything pink with sparkles.
She would just die if she ever got to pet a unicorn. She’s trying to learn how to whistle and needs to constantly practice by blowing as hard as she can in my face—which never results in a fucking whistle, just kid breath all over me. And she knows all the words to the movie Frozen, which she has recited at least six times since I got here.
Let it go, Mia. Let it fucking go.
This kid can talk. Scratch that. This kid never shuts up. Coincidentally, I learned all of these things while sitting on the edge of the tub, watching her poop. I guess that’s a thing I’m required to do. A few months ago, I was wearing a designer dress and sharing a glass of champagne with Carrie Underwood at her album release party. Today, I’m covered in peanut butter, electric blue eye shadow, hot pink lipstick, and enough hair spray to make the Leaning Tower of Pisa stand up straight, while watching a kid take a dump and talk about unicorns.
The only good thing about this hot mess is that I figured, since Mia was a talker, it would be the perfect opportunity to grill her about Clint. Sadly, that didn’t go according to plan.
“So, is it just you, Grace, and your dad living on the farm?” (i.e.: Where the hell is your mother?)
“I pooped really big! Come look!”
“Your dad seems comfortable on the farm. Does he like running the place? (i.e.: When in the hell did he get so hot, and where are all his khakis, computers, and other nerdy things?)
“I have a booger in my nose I can’t reach. Can you get it for me?”
“Does your dad ever talk about when he was younger?” (i.e.: Has he ever even fucking mentioned me before? Has he thought about me in the last twelve years? Do you think he likes me? Do you know the name of a good therapist?)
“Let’s play hide-and-seek! Tag, you’re it!”
So, yeah. Mia has been missing for about twenty minutes. In my defense, she’s really fucking fast and I haven’t been to a spin class in over three months. I’m out of shape. I never heard the front door open and close, so I know she’s still in the damn house somewhere. I’m pretty sure at five she’s old enough to know not to stick a knife in a light socket or take a bath with a toaster, but just in case, on my seventh trip through the kitchen to look for her in all the cupboards, I hid all the knives in the pantry with the peanut butter, and put the toaster out on the front porch.