Chapter Four
Cate
There she stood, grinning up at me, offering her own adorable rendition of sailor’s talk. Except, instead of “salty dog,” she gleefully repeated, “fucking damn it,” between giggles that sounded suspiciously like a soundtrack to my impending professional demise.
It was... disturbingly impressive. If they gave Olympic medals for mimicry, Megan would get the gold.
Where did she pick that up? Local parrots? Unhinged YouTube kids’ songs? I wouldn’t rule out time-traveling toddlers on TikTok.
But let’s be real. I knew exactly where she learned it.
From me. The soon-to-be-fired nanny.
I slumped against the door, eyes squeezed tight, feeling the weight of doom—and,let’s be honest, possible unemployment settled on my shoulders like an overstuffed diaper bag.
This was not how I had imagined my first day.
“I am so fucking fired,” I groaned, almost hoping that if I said it enough, it would turn into a spell and poof me out of there.
My heart did a full-on swan dive as I realized my slip-up. I knew better than to curse around kids. At least I thought I did, but the universe, or maybe just my mouth, had other plans.
Megan, unfazed and thoroughly entertained, giggled as if we’d just invented comedy. With a resigned sigh, I straightenedup, pasted on a shaky smile, and tried to salvage my first impression. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to, um... curse in front of you. I’m Cate, by the way. Your new nanny, apparently.”
Introducing myself to a five-year-old while mentally drafting my resignation letter—just another Monday.
Megan, blissfully unconcerned, beamed up at me with a mischievous twinkle, her entire face saying, “Buckle up, shit’s about to get real!”
I should have heeded the warning.
This was not your average kid.
“I’m Megan,” she announced, utterly nonplussed by the profanity parade. “Daddy says fuck too. He says fuck when he’s happy, when he’s mad, when he stubs his toe, when Uncle Fitz calls. Fuck is a funny word.”
I bit my lip, torn between horror and the urge to give her a high-five.
This kid had comic timing.
“Well, Megan, I think we’re going to get along just fine,” I said, feeling a weird pang of kinship and a fresh dose of sympathy for Dr. Lyon and his barely contained emotional hurricane.
And so began my first day.
Equal parts chaos and charm as Megan and I dove into games, swapped stories, and attempted cookie-baking—less Martha Stewart, more flour-fueled demolition derby. Each activity revealed more of Megan. Her volcanic temper, her flair for drama, and her tendency to treat cookie dough as a stress ball. Instead of feeling overwhelmed, I found myself rooting for this tiny tornado. Maybe I was just desperate for connection, or maybe I saw in Megan’s wild spirit a reflection of my own ragged hopes.
As the morning passed, I discovered that Megan and I shared more than an affinity for forbidden vocabulary. Her love ofdaydreaming, her wild imagination—those were things I’d clung to through every move, every job, every heartbreak. With every story she spun of dragons and faraway lands, I felt the itch of possibility.
Maybe I could belong here. Maybe taking this job wasn’t just about paying rent, but about finding a place where my quirks didn’t just fit but were celebrated.
Our adventures were punctuated by the kind of noise that would make a marching band blush. Megan, mid-pirate fantasy, swinging from the chandelier and hollering, “Shiver me timbers!”—adorable and absolutely terrifying.
I mean, it was like babysitting a live wire. Equal parts heart attack and heartwarming. Sometimes I wondered if Dr. Lyon had any clue what a force of nature his daughter was. I suspected he had.
Why else hire someone like me, a walking disaster zone who still hoped for belonging?
Despite the persistent chaos, I admired Megan’s verve. She lived life at full throttle, reminding me that maybe, just maybe, I could too. As I dashed after her, trying to avert the next catastrophe, I realized that this job, this wild, unpredictable, exhausting job, might have been exactly what I needed. Babysitting Megan wasn’t just an adventure. It was a chance at something more. A little bit of belonging, a lot of laughter, and, if I played my cards right, maybe even a permanent job.
Around one in the afternoon, Megan finally collapsed into sleep. Thank God for naptime because my nerves and muscles both needed the break. As I gently closed her door, careful not to wake the storm brewing beneath those angelic, flour-dusted cheeks, I paused for a moment to watch her breathe. Her tiny hands curled against her pillow, and the steady rhythm of her breaths brought a rare wash of peace over me. In the quiet,I felt a surge of gratitude for this chaotic, exhausting, and unexpectedly precious moment.
Tiptoeing down the hallway, the sweet, buttery aroma of cookies still hung heavily in the air, mingling with the lingering echo of Megan’s wild laughter. When I reached the living room, the scene was a cheerful wreck. Toys scattered like confetti across the carpet, cookie crumbs sprinkled on the couch, and a splotchy trail of flour leading toward the kitchen. The sunlight caught on a forgotten crayon, and I found myself smiling despite my exhaustion. Relief washed over me. Maybe I was worn out, but I was also deeply, stubbornly affectionate for the tornado of a kid who’d turned my world upside down in just a few hours.
