one
HANNAH
I wokeup dreading the day.
A stone—thick, hard, and cold—had settled in the pit of my stomach the moment I woke. The sheets were soft and comfortable, the comforter plush and cozy. My surroundings were bare, but they were clean. I felt safe. Iwassafe.
My belly didn’t pang with hunger pains from missing meals the day before.
There was a hot shower waiting for me in the adjoining bathroom.
There was a little girl down the hall who made me smile, who lit up my world.
All of these things should’ve meant I awakened happy, especially given my past. Growing up, my sheets were thin, scratchy, cheap, and rarely clean. I was always cold, hungry, and afraid. In my young adulthood, in a different house, I woke up next to a man who smelled of booze and who was unpredictable at best, dangerous at worst.
Yes, waking up in a small, comfortable, warm house in Jupiter, Maine, should’ve been a treat for me. I should’ve been dancing for joy that my job was literally hanging out with the most wonderful little girl in the world.
But there was a catch.
In my experience, there was always a catch.
This catch was mild, most would say, considering my past. Yet the stone in my stomach was ever-present, dread heavy in my bones at the prospect of facing the day.
Of facing him.
I hated my boss.
I didn’t make a habit of saying Ihatedanyone. Well, except the people who deserved to be hated.
Kim Jo Hung.
Hitler.
Scumbags like them.
Not the people I interacted with daily—the driver who cut me off, my sister-in-law who controlled my brother and subtly insulted my outfits and general personality whenever we were together—even my ex-husband.
To describe them, I would’ve used the termstrongly dislike. Maybe even punctuate it with some creative profanity.
But hatred was not a feeling I let myself possess. Anger corrodes the vessel in which it is held, and the same could be said about hatred. I’d seen it turn my mother bitter, sick, and cruel. I couldn’t say I didn’t get plenty angry at people, especially those on the previous list. But I never felt like I hated them.
Until Beau Shaw.
My boss.
The unbearable asshole.
Who, for whatever reason, decided he didn’t like me the second he saw me and made it his duty in life to be unpleasant whenever we were stuck in the same room. Considering my job was to be his daughter’s nanny and live in his home, we were stuck together pretty fricking often.
Usually, nannying was about looking after children while the parents were away, but Beau didn’t abide by conventional rules. He was often here, hovering, watching me.
At the beginning, I got it. Clara was only four and recovering from leukemia then a bone marrow transplant. She needed to be in intense quarantine; she was vulnerable. So I gave Beau and his assholery a lot of grace.
Of course, he wasn’t going to be all sunshine and rainbows when he’d just spent years of his life watching his little girl fight an unbearable illness. That kind of thing scarred you, disfigured you in ways that I couldn’t comprehend.
I reasonedthat’swhat made him an asshole.
Then Clara got better and better, words likeremissionandcuredwere used. She would soon be able to go to the playground, interact with children, be a normal little girl, and still, Beau’s behavior continued. He wasn’t overly pleasant with anyone but his daughter, and it seemed his true ire was reserved forme.
