My Son's Sitter
I say nothing, although she opens the door.
“Stevie.”
My old bed creaks as she sits down on it.
“Are you crying?”
When I still don’t respond, she pokes me. Flinging off my comforter, I declare, “I’m not crying. Just leave me alone.”
“I am sorry,” She insists, her dark eyes flashing, “we both know I have a big old stupid mouth. And sometimes I say shit I shouldn’t.”
“Okay,” I agree, grudgingly.
“I know this is a big deal to you,” she says, “that you really went for this position because it’s your nephew and you want to get to know him. And now, the thing with his dad Clayton… that’s pretty messed up.”
“It’s very messed up,” I clarify, my lips set in a sad sort of smile.
And it is. I’d first set out for this job as something to do, that much was true. But the reason I had pinpointed that ad was that I’d recognized the boy he had sent me a picture of. The little dark red hair and blue eyes hadn’t tipped me off, but the name had.
Winston, I had thought, wasn’t that Helena’s….? Going there today had confirmed it. Winston was my crazy estranged sister’s son. My nephew who I’d never even gotten to meet.
When I’d be messaging with Clayton, I’d never thought far enough ahead as to what I’d do if he actually hired me for the position. I’d just wanted to see my nephew. But now that I look to be hired as Winston’s nanny and there’s undeniable chemistry between Clayton and I…
“I still think you should go for it though,” George persists stubbornly.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I say, taking refuge under my covers again, although this time, with my face uncovered.
George holds up her bright red nails, moving them so each nail glints differently in the light.
“I know you’re freaked out because of this whole virgin thing,” She continues casually, as if we’re discussing the merits of braiding versus non-braiding your hair, “but if you stop making a big deal about it and just…”
“Do what you did?” I shoot back, “fall for my guidance counsellor and then get completely screwed over and almost kicked out of my house?”
George’s black brows lower.
“Sorry,” I mutter, “that was a low blow.”
“It’s fine,” She says airily, “if I had all that pent-up desire in me, I’d probably lash out too.”
“How understanding of you,” I comment dryly.
“Seriously though,” She says, “you need to chill.” Having sex is not as big of a deal as you’re making it.”
I throw my covers back over my head.
“I’m only saying it,” George says loudly so I can hear her, “because you’re way prettier and cooler than me, and you have this one thing that’s been bothering you for years now. I just want to see it solved. I’m the one who’s messed up, remember?”
My determined glare softening, I peek out an eye at her.
“Stop it.”
“What?” She says. “It’s true. My parents are one fight away from kicking me out of the house for good. I failed out of university, and you’re the only friend who hasn’t told me to go to hell because I’ve driven them to it.”
Her dark eyes are bulging out slightly as she says all this. Impulsively, I grab her hand.
“I’m not going to leave you, okay? We’re best friends. We’ve been there for each other and we’re going to keep on being there for each other.”
“Promise?” She asks, an evil twinkle in her eye.
“Why…” I say, glaring at her now.
She bats her doe eyes with an innocent expression.
“No reason. Just that I found this in the bottom of your panty drawer and I thought…”
She flings some balled up fabric at me. It hits me in the face just as I turn to glare at her.
“You went through my underwear drawer? Seriously?”
She shrugs, nonplussed.
“I was looking to see where your Chapstick was.”
I’m about to respond when I realize what it is that’s half unraveled on my lap. It’s the only pair of sexy panties I have. I’ve never seen the point of own racy lacy things that won’t be used. Like these. Ever since I bought them five years ago, they have sat woefully unused at the bottom of my underwear drawer.
When I’d originally bought them, at the ripe old age of sixteen, I’d been sure I was going to be using them within a matter of weeks. My brand spanking new boyfriend, the handsome charmer Wednesday Jones and I were one make out away from going all the way. But then, the night after the Caribbean dance, he’d tried pushing me too far in the park. I’d turned him down and he’d stormed off. The next day at school, I’d discovered him hitting on a mutual friend. That was it.
And the rest has been history, a series of fumbled attempts with boys, each new one more disappointing than the last. Most of the time, I chicken out before we even make it to second base.