“When your first day as a nanny involves more security protocols than a presidential visit.”
“You’re making me nervous,” I tell him.
He doesn’t even look at me. “That’s the point, Miss Riley. Situational awareness.”
Miss Riley. Like I’m some kind of professional instead of the woman who AirDropped a meme to Marco, him, and half a bar last week.
Speaking of Marco... his Range Rover is parked at the curb behind us. He’s inside, watching through the window. Keeping his promise to be here while also giving me space to do my job.
The plan is simple. I go in. I get Ben. We leave. Jag maintains what he calls “protective triangle positioning” at the curb. Whatever that means.
What could possibly go wrong?
I spent the entire weekend preparing for this moment. Read every parenting article I could find. Watched YouTube videos about anxious kids. Texted Ethan approximately forty-seven times asking what Ben likes, what she hates, what makes her feel safe.
His responses were frustratingly vague.
“She’s great once she knows you.”
“Just be yourself.”
“You’ll be fine.”
Yeah. Super helpful, bro.
The only concrete intel I got was that Ben loves snails. Specifically their shells. Collects them apparently. So yesterday I dragged myself to three different stores until I found the perfect plush snail. It’s sitting in my tote right now, soft and slightly ridiculous, and I’m putting way too much faith in a stuffed mollusk.
When your entire career hinges on a toy snail. Cut to me spiraling.
The school bell rings. Kids start pouring out of the building like a dam broke. They’re loud. Chaotic. Moving in unpredictable directions. But they mostly ignore me, thankfully.
Still, my chest tightens.
Breathe. Just breathe.
One, two, three.
I make my way inside to Ben’s classroom. The hallway smells like tempera paint and those industrial floor cleaners they use in every school. It triggers something in me. Some old anxiety I thought I’d outgrown.
Spoiler: I did not outgrow it.
Ben’s kindergarten classroom is at the end of the hall. The door is open. I can see kids grabbing backpacks, shouting goodbyes, general five-year-old pandemonium.
And there, in the back corner, is Ben.
Dark corkscrew curls. Piano-black lashes. Almond-brown eyes that are currently filling with tears.
She’s standing completely still. Like she’s frozen. Her teacher is crouched next to her, speaking in that overly gentle voice adults use with anxious kids.
“Ben, your new nanny is here to pick you up today. Remember? We talked about this.”
“No.” Ben’s voice is small but firm. “Matilda is supposed to come.”
Oh no.
No no no.
A meltdown already?
