Somewhere deep down, buried under all the logical reasons why this is a terrible idea, there’s this small, stubborn part of me that wants it anyway. That watches Annie crouch down to Emma’s level to adjust her cat ears and thinkswhat if.
Both things can be true, I guess. My life can be impossibly busy and complicated, and I can still be curious about her. I can still wonder if maybe, in some alternate universe where I’m not her employer and she’s not Emma’s nanny and I’m not a disaster of a human being when it comes to relationships, it could’ve worked.
“You’re doing the thing,” Joe says.
I blink. “What thing?”
“The thing where you think too much and talk yourself out of everything.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Allison says. “We can literally see you doing it.”
My mother pats my arm. “Just ask her to dinner,agápi mou. What’s the worst that happens?”
“She says no, quits, and Emma loses the one person she’s actually bonded with since her mother left,” I say. “That’s the worst that happens.”
The group goes quiet. Even Joe’s grin flickers and dies.
My dad clears his throat, the sound rough and thoughtful. “Or,” he says slowly, his eyes fixing on mine, “she says yes.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because the idea of her saying yes is somehow more terrifying than the idea of her walking away.
“DADDY!”
Emma’s voice cuts through the Monster Mash and the general UWS street noise like a siren. She’s hauling back toward me, her sequined tail throwing off sparks in the glow of a nearby streetlamp. “Daddy, youhaveto see this house! It’s so cool!”
I risk a glance back at my family—a tactical error. My mother is currently boring holes into the side of my head with a lookthat very clearly says,We are not finished with the topic of your romantic ineptitude.My personal life is being managed by a committee, and I’m the only one without a vote.
Emma hooks her hand into mine and practically dislocates my shoulder pulling me toward where Annie and Lauren are standing. As we clear the line of trees, I let out a low whistle. “Okay. Someone has a very healthy budget for theatrical supplies.”
The brownstone in front of us is a neon fever dream. It’s draped in orange and purple string lights that blink in a staccato pattern designed to trigger a migraine in anyone over the age of thirty. Giant inflatable pumpkins are vibrating on the steps, and a fog machine is working overtime, pumping out thick, white clouds that pool around our ankles like a scene from a low-budget horror flick.
On the porch, two life-sized skeletons are settled into rocking chairs. One is wearing a top hat and a tuxedo that looks surprisingly well-tailored; the other is draped in a tattered, blood-stained wedding dress that’s seen better centuries.
We all stand there—the Greek contingent, the ladybug, the cat-mermaid, and the nanny—just tilting our heads in unison. It’s like looking at an abstract painting; you keep waiting for it to make sense if you just squint hard enough.
Emma looks up at Annie, her face lit purple by the lights. “What’s their story? Why is she all messy?”
Annie rubs her chin, her expression shifting into that of a investigative journalist. “Well,” she says, her voice dropping into a low, storyteller’s rasp. “Don’t you know? That’s Harold. And that’s Beatrice.”
“Harold and Beatrice,” Emma repeats, her voice hushed with reverence.
“They were married in 1892,” Annie continues, warming up to the bit. “Harold was a banker. Very boring. He spent allday counting other people’s nickels and wishing he was literally anywhere else.”
“And Beatrice?” Lauren asks, eyes wide under her ladybug antennae.
“Beatrice was a stage actress. Extremely dramatic. She once fainted during a play just because someone in the front row coughed too loud, and the audience gave her a standing ovation.”
I find myself grinning. It’s impossible not to. There’s something about the way Annie’s brain works—it’s quick, it’s playful, and it’s currently holding my daughter’s entire world in the palm of its hand.
“But,” Annie says, leaning in conspiratorially, “Harold had a secret. He wasn’t just a banker. At night, he’d sneak out and steal diamonds from all the fancy houses on Central Park West.”
“No way,” Emma breathes.
“And Beatrice,” I jump in, the words out of my mouth before I can talk myself out of it, “was actually a spy.”
Annie looks at me, one eyebrow arched in a challenge, but her lips are twitching. “A spy?”
