How to Save a Life

“Yes. I’m paying you three thousand a week, I expect you to be available to me.”

That would’ve sounded super dirty if his voice wasn’t so hollow. Then I recall…

“You said four thousand.”

Green eyes narrow on me. His hands, his nice hands, go to his hips and stay there. A moment of intimidating silence ensues in which I start to regret my bout of courage. He undoubtedly learned this trick from his mother. “Three thousand.”

“Four thousand,” I insist. I don’t know what just came over me, but the cat’s out of the bag now. I can’t take it back. Go big or go home. “That was your offer when you came to my job site. And now you want a few nights so…”

His mouth gets a little tight. If he thinks he’s going to “silent treatment” me into submission, he’s got another think coming.

“Four thousand, and you jump when I say so,” he says eons later, breaking the stalemate.

I try not to react but the thrill of victory is coursing through my veins. There’s nothing like winning a hotly contested negotiation and the smile spreading across my face can’t be denied. “Deal.”

He checks me out, scrutinizing my hair and clothes. “Dress casually. Bring stuff to keep here.”

That’s when I get a feeling, a thought. Something strikes me as strange. Do I point out that he’s essentially asking a total stranger to move into his place and take care of a baby? West is a human island. The man barely speaks and he’s inviting me into his home?

“You’re okay with me living here part-time? Like…you don’t know me.”

I should be treading as carefully as possible and yet here I am, tempting the devil.

West sits on the armrest of the couch, facing me. “Riley James Jr, age twenty-six. Birthday, January 18. Five foot nine. A hundred and twenty-five pounds. Never been arrested. Credit score 800. That makes you less of a risk than most people.” A pause. “And don’t say like, it’s unprofessional.”

The grammar lesson flies right past me as I digest the rest of his little speech.

“How did you…wait, I didn’t give you any of my info.” His expression shifts to one you could describe as amused––for a robot that is. “How do you know so much about me?”

He shrugs. Not an ounce of shame or remorse to be found anywhere on him. “There are ways.”

I’m starting to get a clear picture of his ways and I’m not sure I like them. “Pretty sure that’s, again, illegal.”

The sense of entitlement with this guy is off the charts.

“Be here at seven a.m. tomorrow. I’ll fill you in on the rest.”

“Fine,” I say, slowly and carefully handing him the baby who has somehow dozed off. “But you’re wrong.”

He frowns.

“A hundred twenty-nine pounds.”

“A nanny?” My mother scrutinizes me above the rim of her Dunkin’ Donuts coffee mug.

It’s mornings like this one, when I glance around my little kitchen, the one I painstakingly renovated by myself––built the cabinets, stained them with no less than four layers of an Italian grey stain, at the white marble counters and subway tile backsplash I saved for an entire year to buy––that fills me with pride.

I did this. I built a business from the ground up out of nothing. The money we got from my father’s settlement didn’t last very long––most of it went to paying medical bills––and the little that was put aside for me helped me buy this place.

I think I can handle a toddler. I’ve definitely handled worse.

I do my best to avoid her scrutiny over the rim of mine. “Hmmm…,” I say to that, taking a sip of my coffee to delay the inevitable. “Not exactly. It’s a temporary situation. Until her father comes back.”

And who knows when that will be. First order of business is to get to the bottom of that situation. And what exactly is the deal with the mother? Where is that woman? How could she just abandon a two-year-old?

“But you don’t know anything about taking care of a child,” my most ardent supporter says. That’s sarcasm if you missed it.

Wrong, I know plenty now. I spent a big part of the night online reading and watching everything I could find on toddlers. Thank God for YouTube. Not to mention, I pretty much took care of myself when I was a kid. That must account for some knowledge.

“I’ll figure it out…besides, it’s not for long. Her father is…um, away and should be back soon.”

My mother’s expression matches my thoughts. She’s thinking bullshit. And she’s not wrong.

“You’re late.” My new boss declares the moment the door swings open. It’s safe to say this is going to be a painful few months. Better learn how to grin and bear it.

“Good morning,” I say, forcing some cheer upon him. He looks like he needs it. That and an enema.