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After the wedding, Des moves in with us. The apartment is small, and Des is very large, but it works. I think, because of the way he grew up, Des’s definition of home is different from most people’s. He doesn’t need a big mansion on a mountainside, or even a yard to call his own.
He just needs us.
A week later, we get a dog. He’s a tiny black-and-white chihuahua with a sausage-like tail that wags nonstop. Bailey names him Dunk and does indeed take over most of his care, even picking up his poo (even though it’s gross).
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BIG BOSSY MISTAKE
PREVIEW
DANI
As I waitfor a particularly aggressive toaster to eject my dinner, I have no idea that tonight—the night of my thirtieth birthday—is about to go awfully, horrendously right…er, wrong.
Oblivious, I just lean a sweatpants-clad hip against the counter, butter knife in hand, waiting for the violent pop of my toast.
It’s meaningful, really, that this particular day would change the direction of my admittedly chaotic life. Four years ago, my twenty-sixth birthday marked the day I went from employed and stable—on the surface, anyway—to the hot-mess vagabond I am now. My birthday is less of a celebration and more of a yearly reminder that life has a way of roundhouse-kicking me in the head when I least expect it.
On that fateful day four years ago, I took the pieces of my broken heart and shoved them into my empty chest cavity, then gathered up the pathetic remnants of my courage for a single, final act of self-preservation. Sitting behind the desk that had been my prison for the previous three years, I slid a plain, grey USB stick into the company computer and copied hundreds of documents, photos, reports, and emails onto the device. Those files contained every scrap of evidence I could find about the widespread fraud at the company where I worked—fraud I’d participated in. It was my leverage and my death sentence all wrapped up in one. I shoved the little grey USB into my Converse sneakers, then walked to the beat of my rioting heart until I was out of the building—then I ran.
And ran, and ran, and ran. For four years.
Somehow, I landed in a swanky Manhattan apartment housesitting for a woman who inexplicably got past my military-grade defenses and convinced me to try the whole friendship thing. Now I’m waiting for my life to take another sharp left turn.
The gleaming, stainless steel toaster expels two pieces of golden-brown toast with a velocity that still startles me, even though I’ve used it every day for nearly a week. The slice on the left falls on the counter, scattering crumbs across the polished stone countertop. The one on the right lands dead-center on my waiting plate, ready to be smeared with a criminal amount of butter.
Bonnie buys the nice grass-fed Irish butter. She probably doesn’t even realize it’s a luxury to be able to buy five-dollar blocks of butter without blinking.
Toast for breakfast, lunch, and dinner is something I’ve come to appreciate in my four years of near poverty. Simple, easy, versatile, cheap—if not exactly filling. Bonnie told me I could help myself to anything in the fridge, freezer, and pantry while I housesit for her, but something about accepting that level of generosity still makes me itchy.
My best and only friend moved into this place three months ago and told me she couldn’t bear to leave it unattended while she was away for a business conference. She totally overstated how badly she needed someone to stay at her place, but I wasn’t exactly in a position to protest, so I played along and said I’d stay here.
Accepting her offer felt dangerously close to charity, so I’ve been eating toast for six days to make up for it—even if I have been liberal with my butter consumption. It’s the karmic balance of the perpetually broke. I’ll accept her generous offer to stay here, but I won’t raid her pantry like I would my own.
At least she agreed to let me pay rent for the one night a week I’ll be staying here for the next few months. She’s charging me too little, but I’ll deal with that later, when I have enough money to spare.
I’m still getting used to this friendship thing. The give and take. Thetakeis the part I have a problem with, when so often, taking puts you in another person’s debt. I don’t like being in debt. I like being free of all attachments. Free to run if I need to. Free to leave everything behind and know that no one will miss me.
My bare feet make no noise as I pad from her gorgeous kitchen to a massive living room. Yes, massive, even by New York City standards. My previous rat-infested hovel could have fit in the kitchen alone. The plush couch dips as I drop into it, my feet kicking up onto the coffee table. I tear off the corner of my toast with my teeth, chewing mercilessly, not wanting to admit to myself that I’m sick of eating it. That it’s my pride—or maybe my shame—stopping me from digging into the groceries Bonnie must have bought especially for me.
Tomorrow, I’ll be able to eat real food. Perks of the new job. It’s part of the employment contract, so at least I won’t feel weird about eating someone else’s food. I’m going to be a live-in nanny to the billionaire businessman who’s fired every single of the thirty-two other available candidates within a week. The last nanny who was sent—a brilliant childcare provider with six years more experience than me—lasted all of forty-five minutes before she was sent packing.
I’m hoping I last longer than forty-five minutes, otherwise I predict many slices of toast in my future.
Our boss, Linda Delmar—Bonnie’s older sister—assures me I’ll be a great fit. I’m the last name on a long list of qualified nannies specially trained to cater to high-profile clients. Also known as the bottom of the barrel. A noob. A rookie. The agency’s very last hope of keeping this particular uber-rich, single father happy.
