10. Valerie

10

VALERIE

After days of taking care of Abby and Andy, the only thing I want to do on my day off is relax. I enjoy spending time with the twins. I’ve never met kids with so much personality and who are genuinely fun to be around. Andy is a sweetheart and Abby is an old soul, more mature than she should be for a six-year-old. I enjoy my job as their nanny, but I could use a break.

But instead of relaxing, I’m on the way to meet my mom for a brunch that is guaranteed to be anything but relaxing.

I love my mom.

I do.

She’s just not particularly maternal .

If I were ever in need, she’d offer to help me, but her help would come with endless critiques and criticisms about whatever decisions I made that led me to need help in the first place.

I thank my lucky stars Dad is the one who raised me. Unlike Mom, he has the patience of a saint and a gentle soul. He’s barely asked me anything about what my plans are now that I’m living in Dallas. Mom would’ve pestered me endlessly until I gave her a detailed six-month plan on what I needed to do to move on with my life.

Which is what I prepare myself for as I walk into the fancy restaurant located in downtown Dallas. Mom and her husband, Mark, moved to the city shortly after their wedding fifteen years ago. I rarely visit them. Mostly because it feels like I’m walking into a museum whenever I enter into their luxury penthouse. This restaurant feels the same.

I may be twenty-three and out of my clumsy, gangly teen phase, but I still take care to tuck my elbows to my body as I weave through the tables covered with expensive place settings and stemmed glasses, following the hostess to where my mom waits for me.

The sun shines through the clear roof of the sunroom attached to the restaurant, making Mom’s naturally blonde hair shine where she sits in the center of the space. Her eyes are narrowed as she looks at a menu in front of her. If she didn’t have Botox injections, her forehead would be furrowed.

I thank the hostess and then steel my spine as I approach the table. “Hi, Mom.”

She looks up. Assessing eyes trail over me. “Hello, Valerie. You look nice.”

Some of my unease fades. I took extra care when picking out this outfit. I worried the flowy skirt and form-fitting blouse wouldn’t pass my mom’s inspection, but I didn’t have very many options. Most of my wardrobe is still packed away in boxes from when I left Houston, and I got home too late to dig through them in Dad’s storage unit last night.

“The color of your shirt makes you look a little pale, though.”

And there it is.

I bite my tongue and take my seat. The waiter, God bless him, appears and asks for my drink order. A glance reveals a mimosa placed in front of my mother.

“Iced tea, please.” I don’t need alcohol to get through this brunch. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Depending on how the impending interrogation goes, I might regret my choice not to numb my feelings with a little alcohol.

“How are you doing, Mom?” I ask after the waiter walks away.

“I’m fine. Busy with the firm, but that’s to be expected at my level.” She’s back to looking at the menu but continues, “How about you? How’s the job hunt going?”

Here we go.

I was a coward when I finally told Mom I’d moved in with Dad a couple of weeks ago. After I assured her that I was not fired from my job, she began harping on the fact that quitting a job like mine would be seen as a red flag to potential employers. She insisted I start looking for a position at a new firm immediately. And because I hadn’t wanted to argue, I’d agreed, even though I had no intention of bailing on my deal with Carter to work as his nanny for the time being.

Now, I have to come clean.

I pick up the menu in front of me and use it as a sort of shield as I casually answer, “Actually, I already have a job.”

“You do?” I hear her excitement, but I still don’t look up.

“Yeah.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m working for one of Dad’s players.”

“A player?”

“Yes.”

“As an accountant?”

I brace myself for the impending shitstorm. “No, actually. I’m his nanny.”

Call it cowardly or call it smart, but I continue to keep my eyes trained on the fancy script on the menu in my hands.

The silence between us is palpable, and it only ends when the waiter returns with my iced tea. He sets the tall, narrow glass topped with a lemon wedge in front of me. Then, with a cheery demeanor, he asks, “Are you ladies ready to order?”

“I am.” I finally look up. Across the table, I meet Mom’s incredulous stare. “Are you, Mom?”

Not one to make a scene, she takes a deep breath and pulls herself together. “Yes.” She proceeds to order eggs benedict with smoked salmon and chives. I keep it simple with pancakes and turkey sausage.

The reprieve from my mom’s interrogation ends the moment we’re alone. The waiter is barely two steps away before she snaps, “Please tell me you’re joking and that you aren’t really someone’s nanny .” Injections might make it difficult for her face to show emotion, but her judgmental tone makes her feelings clear.

“I’m not joking.”

“Valerie,” she draws my name out with blatant dissatisfaction. “You have a college degree in accounting. You can’t be a nanny. That’s a waste of your talent.”

I sip my iced tea, buying myself time to come up with my response. “I hear what you’re saying, but I like being a nanny. I’m actually pretty good at it.”

And while working at the firm was difficult because of long hours and no semblance of a personal life, being a nanny isn’t a walk in the park.

“How did this even happen?” Mom’s eyes narrow. “Did you go looking for a position as a nanny? Is that why you moved to Dallas?”

“No.” I moved here because it’s where my support system, i.e. my dad, lives.

“Then how did you get the job?”

I know my next words are going to rile her up, but I can’t think of any way around them. “Dad suggested it.”

Mom sits back in her chair with a derisive scoff. “Of course your father is behind this. That man has no sense of ambition.”

The urge to stand up for the amazing man billows within me. “Dad is a coach in the NFL, Mom. He makes good money. Really good money.”

“Yes, and it took him forever to reach that level in his career,” she counters. “And he’s not even the head coach.”

Because he cared more about raising me than he did his career. Unlike you…

“Can we talk about something else?” I hate when Mom talks bad about Dad, but the few times I’ve called her out it in the past didn’t go well. One time, we went a whole month without speaking.

It baffles me to think of my mom and dad ever being happy together. They were college athletes at the same school when they met. Dad played football, and Mom was a track and field star. Maybe she was more laid back at that time? But for as long as I can remember, she’s been high-strung and focused on appearances and others’ perceptions of her life. Dad is the total opposite. He goes with the flow, but that doesn’t mean he’s irresponsible. After all, he’s the one who stepped up to raise me when Mom decided she wasn’t interested in that “lifestyle”.

Yeah… there’s some resentment there for sure.

But I don’t like confrontation—especially not with my mom.

I take another sip of tea as I wait for Mom to respond. I can see in her lovely green eyes—the only feature we have in common—that she wants to keep ragging on Dad.

But whatever she sees in my expression has her sighing and saying, “Sure.”

Relief flows through me, and I jump at the opportunity to potentially turn this brunch into a pleasant experience. “I saw your photos from Venice last month. The city looked beautiful.”

Delight flashes in her gaze and she begins raving about her and Mark’s latest trip to the iconic Italian city.

Our food arrives in the middle of her recounting her tour of St. Mark’s Basilica—her husband’s namesake—but Mom hardly misses a beat as she continues sharing stories of the trip while eating tiny bites of her gourmet meal.

I make sure my bites are equally as small to avoid criticism, nodding absentmindedly as she goes on and on about the overwhelming number of frescos she saw. She goes into painful detail about each one.

I am slicing my sausage link, resisting the urge to stab the entire thing with my fork and take bites from it, when Mom says, “Since you have nothing else going on, you should join me and Mark on a trip soon. It would be good for you to get out of the country and experience a little culture.”

I keep my eyes on my fork and knife and focus on cutting small pieces. “Except, I do have something going on,” I remind her. “I’m a nanny.”

Mom huffs, but whatever snide remark balances on the tip of her tongue isn’t shared. The waiter stops by to check on us, politely attempting not to show he’s noticed the tension percolating between us, before walking away to assist another table when we tell him we’re fine.

I brace myself for her to resume lecturing me about my life choices when my phone buzzes in my purse.

I take out the device even though I know doing so will irritate my mother. Her heavy exhale across the table confirms as much.

But I don’t care about her reaction as I read the message from Carter.

Sorry to bother you. Something’s come up. Is there any way you can watch the kids for a couple of hours this afternoon? I’ll double your rate.

Unease twists my stomach. I haven’t been working for Carter for long, but I know he wouldn’t reach out on my day off unless it was an emergency.

Immediately, I reply:

Of course. When do you need me there?

Is 2 okay?

Yes.

I hit send and chew on my bottom lip, debating if I should ask what’s going on or just wait until I get to the house. Curiosity and concern win.

Is everything okay with the twins?

Yes. Drama with Laura. Nothing serious.

Rather than alleviate my concern, his reply makes it grow. I don’t know all the details about what’s going on with him and his ex. It’s not my business, and asking about it seems like venturing too close to crossing the line of professionalism we both drew in the sand. But Andy and Abby talk about their mother from time to time, and what they share is troubling.

They’re just kids. I know what they say could very well be a misrepresentation of their interactions with their mother. But I’ve heard enough about how she’s often too busy when they’re around to play with them, or how she doesn’t like superheroes and refuses to watch her son’s favorite cartoons with him, for me to think Carter’s ex might not be winning Mother of the Year anytime soon.

I tell Carter I’ll be there as soon as I can, to which he responds:

Thank you.

“Are you done being rude?”

I look up from the phone and am greeted by my mom’s scowl.

“Sorry. It was work.”

My words only make her scowl deepen. “Work,” she scoffs. “Indeed.”

I bite my tongue and resume eating my meal in child-sized bites to avoid yet another criticism from my mother.

The rest of the meal passes by at a torturously slow pace. When it finally ends and I kiss my mother’s cheek goodbye, I immediately feel the burden of her disapproval lift when she turns on her designer heels and strides over to the valet to retrieve her car.

I walk the two blocks to reach the free parking garage located near Dallas’s community center, all the while wondering what newest drama could be brewing between Carter and his ex and mentally kicking myself for caring more than I should.

Laura is his ex, but she’s also the mother of his children. They may not get along now, but at one point they were a happy family. I’ve seen the pictures. Though, I think it’s important to note they were on a random website and not on Carter’s social media.

My boss had accepted my follow request, but he hasn’t brought it up to me. Just like I haven’t brought up the fact he followed me back.

Did Carter scroll through my profile to view pictures that dated to my high school days like I did on his?

Did he feel annoyed and jealous when he saw a photo of me and another guy the way I did when I found that family photo in that feature in NFL Magazine after his rookie season?

I hated how seeing that picture made me feel.

Not just because those feelings are hard to stomach, but because I have no right to feel that way.

Carter Jones is not mine to feel jealous of. He’s my boss. Not my boyfriend.

I have a good thing going with this nanny gig, and for the first time since I was a child who didn’t let her mother’s judgment sway every decision she made for herself, I’m happy.

I’d be a fool to do something to mess this up… like catch feelings for my devastatingly handsome boss.

Maybe if I repeat those words enough, I’ll finally be able to get it through my stubborn head and stop the nightly fantasies about what being with Carter Jones would look like.

He’s not for me, and I’m not for him.

It’s about time I accept it.