The lilt of confusionat the tail end of his question wasn’t lost on me. Between the lines, I heardhim asking why it was that I’d be interested in babysitting his children, if Ialready had a stable career taking care of people. And despite there beingnobody else in my room, I felt the heat of my blush blossoming over my cheeks.
“Well, no,” I told him,never losing the confidence in my tone. “I’m a writer.”
It almost felt like alie. He was asking what I did for a career, how I made my money. And presently,I could hardly piece two sentences together, let alone support myself with mywords.
I predicted that he’dimmediately ask what kind of writing I did, or what I had published, butinstead, he uttered a sound of intrigue.
“So, would you be ableto come by this weekend? Or maybe we could, uh, meet at a public place? I mean,if you’d be more comfortable with that, or …” His voice tapered off, leavingroom only for a strangled, awkward laugh. “Igottabehonest, I have no idea what I’m doing here. I’ve never hired a babysitter before.”
The professionalism wascleared from the air, and I found myself giggling awkwardly right along withhim. “AndI’venever been hiredasa babysitter before.”
Jon’s groan was coupledwith a sigh. “It just hit me how weird that must’ve been for you. How did heevenask? I mean, you were thereapplying for, what? The bartenderposition?”
“Yep,” I replied,settling against my pillows and shaking my head.
“And he said, what?‘Yeah, you’re not qualified for this, but you know, I might have the perfectopportunity for you?’” His chuckle held incredulity, but his tone held acomfort that made my smile feel easy. I wondered if he felt as relaxed as Idid. Then I wondered why I wondered at all.
I raised my eyes to theceiling and shook my head at the recent memory. “He said he had something elseI might be interested in and proceeded to mention that the girls could reallyuse a babysitter.”
“Why would he think you…” His words trailed into hearty laughter. “God, I’m sorry. He’s unbelievable.”
I smiled and wrapped anarm around my middle. “It’s okay. I’mactually gladheasked, honestly. Your girls are adorable.”
“Thank you.” A deepsigh hit the phone and he asked, “So, would you like to meet here, or would youfeel better somewhere else? Either is fine with me.”
“Oh, um,” I cleared mythroat, reverting to professionalism once again, “your place would be fine. Idon’t mind. You don’t seem like a serial killer at all.”
“Thanks … I think?” Hechuckled uneasily.
“My grandma has areally vivid imagination,” I muttered.
With another laugh, hesaid, “Well, tell your grandma you are safe with me. My kids won’t even let mekill spiders, and I’m really,reallyterrified of spiders.”
***
In a less desirable part of town, my fisthovered just above the dull, brass22on the apartment door. From the hallway, I could hear the chatter of toddlervoices, the dropping of something heavy, and the scolding of a deeper voice.
Jon.
Inhaling a bout ofbravery and confidence, my fist struck the door three times, and I waited. Inervously picked at my cuticles as a scuffle broke out on the other side of thedoor. The kids spoke angrily to each other, while he pleaded for them tobehave. His voice came closer and closer, until the only thing separating himfrom my anxious picking was one slab of wood.
Why the hell was I sonervous? I wasn’t naturally a nervousperson. Not even when I decided to take time away from making money to fumblemy way through writing a book. But God, I was nervous now.
The door flew open andthere, standing before me, was the man I’d met at Jeff’s club. Messy-haired andwearing a much-loved t-shirt and a pair of jeans, he looked way more relaxedand comfortable than the version I’d met earlier in the week.
Beside him were threegirls. Two I recognized immediately, messy-ponytailed and excited, and one Ihadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting.
“Hey Tessa. Thanks forcoming,” Jon greeted breathlessly as he outstretched a hand to me.
As I stepped forward,not quite crossing the threshold, I took his hand and noticed his reddenedcheeks, just above the thicket of his beard, and said, “Of course. Are youokay?”
His long fingersenveloped my palm, his touch soft and warm, as his gaze shifted from me to thetrio beside him. “Well, I just spent the morning fighting World War 3 to getthese kids showered and dressed,” and he looked back to me as he said with asarcastic smirk, “but otherwise, I’m great.”
Letting go of my hand,he stepped back into the apartment to rest the hand I’d just held onto thesmall head of the smallest girl.
“Well, it looks likeyou won the battle,” I offered lightheartedly, smiling at his daughters,particularly the one I had yet to formally meet.
Tipping his head towardme and allowing his face to droop just a bit, unveiling a layer of melancholybeneath the surface, he said, “The jury’s still out on that one.”
