But there aren’t.
Of course, there aren’t. There’s only one, and he’s so cool with putting our romantic history behind us and moving on as myboss,he doesn’t even bother to text me. Not so much as a “Wow, small world, huh?” or a “Don’t worry, it won’t be weird that you’re living above my garage, I promise.”
There’s nothing, not a peep from “Mr. Kate” between the moment I get the news at five and when I slide into bed at ten, wanting to make sure I get a solid night’s sleep before I leave for his place.
“I wonder if he’ll expect me to call him, Mr. Kate,” I mutter to Nutasha.
She clucks her tongue, assuring me,This is a bad idea, love.
She’s right, but it’s also the only way I’m paying my bills this month.
So, I set my alarm for five-thirty, close my eyes, and pray I won’t have weird sex dreams about my new boss.
Seven
DEAN
The bananas are wrong.
Not rotten. Not bruised. Not insufficiently banana-shaped.
Just wrong. Wrong in a way that only a three-year-old with strong opinions about bananas—and what kinddon’tbelong in her pancakes—can express.
“No, Daddy, these aren’t the good bananas. They’re the bad bananas,” Bella announces from her booster seat, her lower lip quivering. “I can tell. They’re the mean ones that make my tummy hurt.”
“No, they’re not, Bell. They’re the same bananas I always get, I promise.” I flip another pancake, trying to stay the course on this “fun and healthy pancake breakfast” mission, even as a part of me insists I should give up and let the nanny feed the girls cereal when she gets here.
Or cookies.
Or ice cream.
Whatever makes this already frantic morning easier for everyone involved.
“No,” Bella howls, her eyes shimmering. “They’re not!”
“They’re Chiquita. You love Chiquita,” I insist. “Look, here’s the sticker to prove it.”
“No! Not the lady. The lady is the one Idon’tlike, Daddy! I like the ones with the circle sticker.”
The circle sticker…
Which company has a circle sticker? And does it matter? As far as I know, all brands of bananas at the local grocery are molecularly identical to the bananas being shoved across the table as Bella sobs, “Get away from me, mean lady bananas!”
“You need some help in here, Dean?” My mother’s voice cuts through the breakfast chaos from the hall.
“No, I’ve got it,” I promise, shifting the last pancake from the pan to the plate and shutting off the burner.
Looks like I won’t need six extra pancakes, after all—Ava will eat leftovers, but she’s not getting through six before they go bad. I suppose I can wrap my morning omelet in a pancake for a day or two. I hateallbananas, no matter what sticker they have on the peel, but I’m an adult. I can force myself to eat foods I despise in the name of avoiding waste.
“Well, I could go for one last coffee before we hit the trail,” Mom says. “There, there, baby, it’s okay. Why don’t I get you some yogurt instead? Or some cereal?”
I turn to see her smoothing Bella’s brown curls from her forehead, before dabbing the tears from her cheeks. “Yes, pweese,” Bella says. “I want pony grahams. The honey kind.”
“Coming right up,” Mom says cheerfully, scooping up the evil-banana contaminated pancakes before breezing my way. “My flight leaves in four hours, honey. Is this new nanny going to be here on time?”
“The agency promised she’d be here promptly at six-thirty.”
“It’s six twenty-five.” Mom clucks her tongue as she fetches a bowl from the cabinet beside the stove, clearly disapproving ofhow close this new girl is cutting things. “It’s a good forty-five-minute drive.”
