Page 19 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

I search one more round of agency listings. One catches my eye. Prestige placements, high-discretion households, long-term domestic staffing, and excellent salary for qualified candidates.

That sounds intimidating in a way that suggests marble countertops and rich people with alarming expectations, but also, importantly, money.

And then I see it.

Live-in nanny placement available. Immediate placement required. Private family. Chicago. Long-term preferred. Childcare experience essential. Must be adaptable.

I sit up straighter.

“Well,” I murmur to myself, “hello, gorgeous.”

The posting is vague in that rich people way that makes me assume either incredible benefits or a family secret in the attic. But the agency looks legitimate, the pay range is good, and live-in solves the problem I'm currently trying not to have a nervous breakdown over.

This could work. It could actually work.

My pulse picks up as I click through to the application.

I upload my résumé, fill in the forms, attach references, and write the kind of cover note that makes me sound calm, capable, and emotionally resilient.

When I hit submit, I sit back and stare at the screen. Hope's a weird feeling after humiliation. Fragile, sharp-edged, easy to distrust. Still, it’s there.

I check my inbox.

Nothing yet, obviously, because life isn't a movie and agencies aren't waiting breathlessly for my arrival.

Even so, I feel better. Better enough to order a muffin. This is called growth.

By the time I leave the café, the sky is starting to turn that pale evening gold that makes the city look softer around the edges. I walk back toward the motel with my hands in my cardigan pockets and my brain busy in a way that feels constructive.

I can do this.

I can find work, can stay, can build a version of life here that has absolutely nothing to do with Bryce.

The thought carries me all the way back.

But the second I open the motel room door, the loneliness hits again.

I set my bag down, kick off my boots, and sit on the bed with a sigh. Then, because I’m apparently determined to keep hurting my own feelings, I pick up my phone.

I don’t open Bryce’s profile.

Growth.

I do, however, open my photo gallery by accident, or maybe by habit, and there he is in older pictures, smiling at me in restaurants, on sidewalks, at farmers’ markets, in all those bland happy moments that now feel like evidence from a crime scene.

I swipe past them quickly, jaw tight.

Then I stop.

Mixed in there, from the airport and after, are the pictures I took when I got to Chicago. The skyline through the taxi window. My suitcases by the motel bed, sent to Luci with the caption don’t panic. A blurry night shot from the plane.

And then…

I freeze.

There’s a photo I don’t remember taking clearly. More of an accidental snap than anything else. It’s dark, taken low, mostly seat and shadow, and a slant of lamplight from first class.

But there, just in frame, is the sleeve of a pilot’s uniform. A strong hand resting near an armrest. The edge of a jaw. Salt and pepper at the temple.