SYLVIE

I’m having a good time. I’m having a good time, I insist inwardly as I force myself to laugh at yet another of Glen’s lazy student jokes.

But then the laughter dies in my throat, and not just because I find his mostly student-targeted jokes anything but funny.

Following my gaze, Glen says, “That’s Holt Calson, the CEO of Cal-Mart, right? Do you know him?”

“Yes, he is my…ah, boss.”

Glen’s eyes widen. “Holt Calson is your boss?”

“Yes,” I answer, noticing that not one, but two of the wait staff rush over to a newly empty table by ours and frantically start clearing it off.

There is also a man with a heavy paunch at the restaurant’s front door. He is either the manager or the owner because he flips the black, white, and red door sign from “open” to “closed” before walking to the closest occupied table. After talking to the two men eating dinner there, he moves onto the next two top and then the next.

We soon discover why when he reaches our table and lets us know that the Holt Calson has booked the entire restaurant for himself and his date. But of course, we are more than welcome to finish our meals before we leave, and Mr. Calson has generously offered to pay our dinner bills to offset any inconvenience his arrival may cause.

Glen’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?” he says, looking all sorts of delighted that he is no longer expected to pick up the check.

“Wow! Your boss is a real romantic,” he comments after the manager moves on to the next table. Then he drops his voice to ask, “But wasn’t his son on YouTube a few months back threatening to kill a bunch of kids at some vacation club?”

“That clip is nothing to go by. His son is a wonderful soul,” I answer, feeling defensive of Wes.

“You must be some kind of super nanny,” Glen insists.

“I’m not. Really, I’m not.”

But my date just shakes his head and says, “I cannot believe I’m sitting across from Holt Calson’s nanny! Janet is not going to believe it when I tell her.”

Janet being his evil feminist ex-wife who Glenn has spent half the evening complaining about.

“Can we change the subject?” I ask as I watch the host escort Holt, who is wearing a tux, and a stunning, willowy brunette in a floor length evening gown, to the table with a view out the restaurant’s large street-facing bay window.

It is the perfect table for a romantic date and unfortunately, it is next to ours. Glen and I watch as Holt pulls out a chair for his date, like the hero in an old-fashioned romantic movie.

Thanks to the reflection offered by the curved bay window, I can see both Holt and his date as clearly as if I am watching them in a silent film. But if Holt notices me, he doesn’t acknowledge it or so much as glance my way, even after he takes a seat that directly faces me.

“Do you want to go over and say hello?” Glen asks, turning back around to look at me.

“No, that’s okay. I imagine they want their privacy. I’ll wave on the way out,” I answer. Then I put every ounce of focus I have into concentrating on Glen instead of the man seated at the next table across from a lovely swan of a woman who makes me feel like a dumpy pigeon in my simple wrap dress.

Glen’s nods sympathetically. “Yes, I suppose that might make it feel a little bit too much like being at work, huh?”

“Actually, I don’t see him much at work,” I answer. And even though I was forced to take the job as Wes’s nanny, I admit, “I really enjoy what I do.”

“Well, good for you!” Glen says, tapping the table with his hand for extra emphasis. “As you can imagine, it has not been easy to care for my daughter on my own. It is so nice to meet a woman who has chosen to make a career out of childcare. What attracts you to caring for other people’s children?”

I shift uncomfortably. This is not the first time tonight that I have felt as if this is a job interview rather than a date. Glen has asked me a number of questions about my childcare philosophy ever since we met outside CIT’s main lecture hall. And though I understand why my Aunt Judith would be excited at the prospect of me dating an educated Jamaican man, I cannot help but wonder if Glen will try to swap out a goodnight kiss for a meet and greet with his daughter.

But Holt is...well, he may not be watching us, but he is right there. So, I answer the question as best I can. “I do not think of it as ‘taking care of another family’s child.’ To me, it is more like hanging out with some admittedly small friends who I can encourage to become kind and competent adults. I have always found children interesting and funny, even when they are ‘doing bad’ as my mother would say. Children are a blessing, not a curse. That’s how I see it.”

“What a great perspective!” Glen agrees with a nod that mimics his voice: overemphatic to the point of patronizing.

But he is cute, I remind myself. He’s on the lighter side, but he didn’t seem remotely off put by my darker skin—something that came up a few times for me when I was dating in Jamaica. Maybe the conversation will improve after dinner, I tell myself as the server sets two steaming plates of pasta in front of us.

Yet while we eat, Glen asks even more interview-like questions.

Do I have plans to move back to Hartford to be closer to my mother? (No, since I have to accompany my son to his classes for the next four years—I don’t bother telling him my mother and I are more or less estranged.)

Do I prefer girls or boys? (I think this is a ridiculous question. But I simply tell Glen I have no preferences at all—I’ve worked with a constantly rotating group of children every week, and found both genders capable of great kindness and misbehavior.)

But I must have answered most of his questions correctly because after asking the server to bring us the dessert menu, Glens says, “You know, my daughter is home with Grandma right now. Would you like to stop by my place to say hi? Then I can drive you back to your place in Greenwich.”

Wow. Sometimes I really hate being right. This is one of those times. “Really, there’s no need. I can Uber home.”

“Nonsense! You know neither of our aunts would forgive me if I let you go home in an Uber.”

His comment elicits my first genuine laugh of the evening. “Your aunt doesn’t trust that Uber either?”

“As far as she’s concerned, every single one of those drivers are out looking for little old Jamaican ladies to rob and leave by the side of the road.”

I laugh again. “You know what, Glen? Maybe I will stop by and meet your daughter tonight. Just to say hello.”

He smiles back. “So, you mentioned you went to Beaumont. That’s a great school. And UHART…your Aunt Judith mentioned something about you almost going there?”

I nod, not liking where this conversation appears to be headed. Or that the restaurant has rapidly emptied. Leaving me with fewer and fewer focal points until only Holt and his gorgeous date are left.

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking.”

I squirm, wondering why people phrase sensitive questions like that. He’s set me up to either tell him a story I don’t want to share, or admit that I do mind him asking.

“I…ah…it is a very long story. My sister needed me, so I had to return to Jamaica instead of beginning school. Then she died, and there was Barron to care for, so…”

“Well, that in itself is a kind of education, is it not?” he says. “But I am really very sorry for your loss. Losing my wife to another man has been hard as well, so I get it. Lot of grief to get through.”

I try not to wince at his comparison. Losing a spouse to divorce can’t be easy. But losing a loved one to death is a hell of a lot worse than being run out on by your wife.

I opt for a nod and comment that losing someone for any reason is very difficult indeed.

“But now Barron attends CIT? And you say he’s only ten?”

“Yes.”

“You must have done an incredibly good job raising him!”

“Well, actually, when it comes to child prodigies, it’s usually the other way around. Barron was incredibly smart from birth and mostly self-taught. It’s as if his intelligence has nothing at all to do with me. I am simply in charge of buying his materials and teaching him basic social skills so he can interact smoothly with other kids. And as far as that goes, I can only say I have done an okay job. It’s a lot like trying to teach someone with the intellect and interests of an adult how to get along with people he doesn’t have much in common with.”

“Hmmm. So now that you’re the nanny for Holt Calson’s son, isn’t it difficult for you to look after Barron?” Glen asks, cringing slightly as if our interview may have hit a snag.

His question takes me by surprise, and I suddenly feel more than a little guilty as I answer, “Actually, no. Barron and Holt’s son get along great. They are the best of friends.”

Glen nods. “Great, great…sounds like Barron and Naomi should have a play date soon! We’ll see if they get along as well as your son and your current charge.”

My current charge? As if Wes is a short-term job that I will leave for my next role as wife of Glen and permanent caretaker of Glen’s daughter. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. I so badly want to glance over at the table next to us. I feel certain Holt’s date must be going better than mine.

Finally, after a lot of mental back and forth, I risk that glance. Only to be met by my boss’s stare. His glittering, extremely hard-eyed stare.

And just like that, all pretense seeps out of me. I am tired of this date. And of this situation. I am tired of acting like someone I’m not.

“Excuse me,” I say, carefully placing my napkin on the table next to my half-empty glass of water. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Sure! We can decide on dessert when you get back,” Glen answers.

As I stand to leave and make my way through the now empty restaurant, my date is already pulling out his phone. Most likely to text his ex-wife and rub it in about his date with a woman who knows how to cook and clean, and is nanny to the son of a famous billionaire. Never mind that Glen’s ex-wife has earned a doctorate, an honor I would be thrilled to say I achieved. Yet here I am, uneducated and working for a man who hate-fucks me behind closed doors every night, but is at this moment on a romantic date with a woman who looks like the complete opposite of me. Great. You are so winning at this thing called life, Sylvie.

Feeling worse than a fool, I rush toward the tiny restaurant’s unisex bathroom. I don’t need to go, I just need to escape. From Glen. From Holt. And from all the complicated feelings I shouldn’t be having.

I slam down the toilet seat and plop myself on top of it, covering my face and breathing into my hands. I am trying hard to calm down. Trying to get it back together. But only a few seconds into my make-up ruining breathing exercise, a knock sounds at the door, sharp and quiet.

I look up from my hands. Ugh. I completely forgot to slide the lock into place during my dramatic entrance. “This bathroom is occupied,” I call out. “I’ll be done in a moment.”

But the doorknob turns anyway. Maybe the person can’t hear me over the noise from the kitchen?

“Sorry,” I say in a much louder voice. “I’m in here. Please don’t come in…”

Then my words trail off when I see who has squeezed himself into the tiny bathroom. Squeezed in, shut the door, and unlike me, locked it behind him.

“Holt,” I whisper, not understanding why he is in here…. or what will happen next.