back from my grasp. “Look, just say whatever and I’ll go, okay?”
“Okay.” I tuck my hair behind my shoulder, piecing together twelve-year and twelve-hour-old thoughts. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I left. That I let myself—let myself get so scared off. That me being scared was bigger than saying good-bye, helping you understand, fighting for you. I didn’t know how. I still don’t know, but I should’ve done something—in person. It’s not like they were going to kill me, right?”
He takes me in from behind his long blond bangs and clears his throat. “Okay.”
“Okay, so I want to do something. Tell me how I can fix this, how I can help you.”
He cracks a smile. “Okay, easy, Drama, it’s not like I’m dying or anything.”
“No, no, I’m not suggesting that. But you said things were shitty at home and if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all . . .”
He nods in deep thrusts, one hand tucking into his blazer sleeves as he grips the strap of his inked-up messenger bag with the other. “I’m cool.”
“Okay.” I find I’m leaning forward on my sneakers. And that I don’t feel even an inch better.
“So you’re not going to, like, follow me now, are you?” He starts to walk, one loafer lining up behind the other, into the thinning flow of students, winding his headphone wire around his black iPod.
“No!” I force a laugh. “Not unless you want me to.”
He shakes his head no and ducks into the courtyard.
I lean back against a parking meter and stare at a Red Bull can, half crushed beneath a Lincoln’s idling wheel, not knowing what to do, or even how to walk away.
“Nanny?”
I raise my chin to see him jogging back to the iron gates.
“Yes?” I walk quickly toward him.
“There is …something.”
“I’m on it!”
He leans away. “It’s not for me. It’s for my brother—”
“Brother?!”
“Stilton. He’s seven and trying to get into this boarding school—the only one that’ll take him at eight—and then I’ll apply to colleges nearby to keep an eye on him.” His face takes on a seriousness that makes my heart tighten. “My dad’s moved out and my mom’s tranqued out of her mind, but I was able to pull some family strings and get an interview this week. There’s supposed to be an adult there—”
“You got it.”
He smiles, unmistakable relief in his eyes. “What’s your number? I’ll text you the details.”
“Great!” I wait while he tugs out his phone and then punches it in.
“Cool.” He puts out his hand. “Thanks, this is cool of you.” And I don’t throw my arms around him, I don’t break down crying from the relief at this chance to right things, I just take his hand and shake it for the second time in as many days.
That evening, as soon as the two little arrows on my BlackBerry shoot off in opposite directions like exuberant dance partners, I wait to see if I got a message from Grayer or Ryan while I was on the train. Nothing. Hoping Ryan is still in meetings, I exhale when my call thankfully goes straight to voice mail again, because I know if we connect it’ll be impossible not to download my turmoil on the baby crisis—and I don’t want to add to the actual global crisis he’s already triaging. Following Citrine’s texted instructions, I veer off from the boutique-strewn main drag of Williamsburg and head west toward the East River and the industrial area that lines it.
“Hey, babe, it’s me,” I begin after the beep, being the wife he needs right now. “I know you’re up to your neck in this grain shortage—can I say that? Can you be up to your neck in the lack of something? Anyway, you sounded exhausted. I’m sorry we keep missing each other. I’m on my way to dinner with Citrine, but hopefully we’ll catch each other tomorrow.” I pause for a second, debating telling him about Grayer in a voice mail. “And I feel really crappy about how we left things. Sorry. Love you, bye.”
I make another
“Okay.” I tuck my hair behind my shoulder, piecing together twelve-year and twelve-hour-old thoughts. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I left. That I let myself—let myself get so scared off. That me being scared was bigger than saying good-bye, helping you understand, fighting for you. I didn’t know how. I still don’t know, but I should’ve done something—in person. It’s not like they were going to kill me, right?”
He takes me in from behind his long blond bangs and clears his throat. “Okay.”
“Okay, so I want to do something. Tell me how I can fix this, how I can help you.”
He cracks a smile. “Okay, easy, Drama, it’s not like I’m dying or anything.”
“No, no, I’m not suggesting that. But you said things were shitty at home and if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all . . .”
He nods in deep thrusts, one hand tucking into his blazer sleeves as he grips the strap of his inked-up messenger bag with the other. “I’m cool.”
“Okay.” I find I’m leaning forward on my sneakers. And that I don’t feel even an inch better.
“So you’re not going to, like, follow me now, are you?” He starts to walk, one loafer lining up behind the other, into the thinning flow of students, winding his headphone wire around his black iPod.
“No!” I force a laugh. “Not unless you want me to.”
He shakes his head no and ducks into the courtyard.
I lean back against a parking meter and stare at a Red Bull can, half crushed beneath a Lincoln’s idling wheel, not knowing what to do, or even how to walk away.
“Nanny?”
I raise my chin to see him jogging back to the iron gates.
“Yes?” I walk quickly toward him.
“There is …something.”
“I’m on it!”
He leans away. “It’s not for me. It’s for my brother—”
“Brother?!”
“Stilton. He’s seven and trying to get into this boarding school—the only one that’ll take him at eight—and then I’ll apply to colleges nearby to keep an eye on him.” His face takes on a seriousness that makes my heart tighten. “My dad’s moved out and my mom’s tranqued out of her mind, but I was able to pull some family strings and get an interview this week. There’s supposed to be an adult there—”
“You got it.”
He smiles, unmistakable relief in his eyes. “What’s your number? I’ll text you the details.”
“Great!” I wait while he tugs out his phone and then punches it in.
“Cool.” He puts out his hand. “Thanks, this is cool of you.” And I don’t throw my arms around him, I don’t break down crying from the relief at this chance to right things, I just take his hand and shake it for the second time in as many days.
That evening, as soon as the two little arrows on my BlackBerry shoot off in opposite directions like exuberant dance partners, I wait to see if I got a message from Grayer or Ryan while I was on the train. Nothing. Hoping Ryan is still in meetings, I exhale when my call thankfully goes straight to voice mail again, because I know if we connect it’ll be impossible not to download my turmoil on the baby crisis—and I don’t want to add to the actual global crisis he’s already triaging. Following Citrine’s texted instructions, I veer off from the boutique-strewn main drag of Williamsburg and head west toward the East River and the industrial area that lines it.
“Hey, babe, it’s me,” I begin after the beep, being the wife he needs right now. “I know you’re up to your neck in this grain shortage—can I say that? Can you be up to your neck in the lack of something? Anyway, you sounded exhausted. I’m sorry we keep missing each other. I’m on my way to dinner with Citrine, but hopefully we’ll catch each other tomorrow.” I pause for a second, debating telling him about Grayer in a voice mail. “And I feel really crappy about how we left things. Sorry. Love you, bye.”
I make another
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