I make the short walk to the hotel the team put me up in. The ornate moldings might as well sayNot LA. The wallpaper is a dark botanical print that probably cost a fortune, but makes everything look claustrophobic.
Sure, Massachusetts was my home. But my memories of growing up here aren’t great. Winters went on forever, and waiting outside for the yellow school bus wasn’t exactly the way to enjoy them.
Our breath used to cloud in the air, like we were a bunch of smokers and not kids. Then school would drag on under fluorescent lights with exposed asbestos everywhere. Sitting on the radiator when there weren’t enough chairs, pretending I liked the girls in class and pretending not to notice the guys—every interaction something that could ruin me.
I miss the palm trees and the perfect weather and the contemporary designs that don’t make me feel like I’m wandering the vision board of a middle-aged woman with aLittle Womenobsession.
I walk along the stodgy corridor with its fancy moldings and paintings of Boston and Cambridge from a century ago. They’re all clipper ships and the State House dome and Harvard Yard in autumn, gilt frames thick with dust in the corners. The pompous gold-and-burgundy carpet muffles my footsteps.
I drop my things in my suite, then enter the suite I rented for Luca and the expensive round-the-clock nanny service from the agency.
“I’m home!” I shout, forcing a smile on my face, waiting for a new nanny I don’t recognize to greet me distractedly.
And then I hear it.
Crying.
Frightened crying.
Fuck.
“Mr. Bellanti.” A woman I don’t recognize greets me with a sour expression.
Next to her is Luca, sniveling, his big eyes round with tears. His pants are damp.
Shit.
“I do not work with babies,” she says. “I work with children who have learned to use the bathroom. I’ve already called the agency for someone who can work with someone so… developmentally challenged.”
I scoop Luca up. His hands tighten around my shirt.
The woman’s nose wrinkles. Maybe carrying a child who has wet himself isn’t precisely hygienic.
“It was an accident.” I glare at her. “Everyone has accidents.”
“Do you have accidents, Mr. Bellanti?”
“Did you ask him if he needed to go? He hasn’t had an accident until now.”
“He doesn’t talk,” she says brusquely. “He’s supposed to talk. Changing diapers is not in my job description. You’ll need to hire other nannies for that service.”
“Luca doesn’t wear diapers.”
“Obviously he should.” She marches from the room.
The door clicks behind her.
I need to make sure a new nanny is really coming.
I take out my phone, maneuvering it awkwardly when I’m still holding Luca.
He stares at me wide-eyed.
No.
I need to clean him first.
And then I need to change.
