4. Ella

4

ELLA

I carefully arrange a pile of past due bills next to a thriving peace lily.

A recent memory pops unbidden into my head, momentarily clearing the fog of anxiety that's taken up permanent residence in my mind. I remember the last baby I nannied, a cherubic little terror who started calling me "Mom" after just two weeks. Not because we had a mystical bond, but because his actual mother, a woman who believed a parenting book was more accessory than manual, seemed to find her Gucci bag more cuddly than her child.

I let out a dry chuckle, watering my army of houseplants that seem to be the only living things thriving under my care. "At least you guys can't talk yet," I muse aloud, misting a fern that's perched high on a stack of books. The books are a mix of self-help and mystery novels, which, if you squint, is pretty much the summary of my life right now.

The walls of my small apartment are covered in a riot of colors, art I've picked up from local markets and garage sales, each piece evocative of my love for things that have a bit of a story. The kitchen, a tiny affair, boasts an array of pots hanging from hooks, their bottoms worn from use but still good for a stir-fry or a desperate midnight mac 'n cheese session.

I shuffle over to the kitchen, the mismatched tiles cool under my feet. I'm out of milk, a discovery I make only after I've already scooped the coffee grounds into the French press. "Black it is," I declare to the room, because who needs milk when life is already watered down enough as it is?

The microwave dings, and I retrieve my dinner—a frozen lasagna that looks nothing like the picture on the box. I prod it with a fork, the cheese squeaking in protest. "Quiet," I warn the pasta with mock severity. "You're not the only one having a tough day."

Dinner in hand, I retreat to my makeshift office, which is really just a corner of the living room where my ancient laptop sits amid a sprawl of paperwork. I'm still hunting for a proper job, something that pays more than just compliments and occasional babysitting gigs. The screen lights up with a burst of emails—all of them screaming Urgent but none of them bearing good news.

The rent notice sits ominously on top of the pile. I poke at my lasagna as I read it for the umpteenth time, the words Final Notice glaring back at me. My landlord, a sweet old lady who knits more scarves than anyone could possibly need, has been patient, but even her kindness has limits, apparently.

I sigh, setting aside the notice and pulling my laptop closer. The job hunt resumes. I type in my credentials, filter the options, and send out applications into the void, hoping for something that sticks. My phone buzzes—a text from my best friend checking in. Alive but drowning in bills , I text back, adding a smiley face to show that I'm fine, really, just marinating in financial limbo.

Another sip of my harsh black coffee, and I'm back to scrolling through job listings. Nanny, caregiver, personal assistant—positions that demand a heart of gold and the patience of a saint. I have at least one of those, maybe.

Mid-scroll, a loud knock at my door startles me. I glance through the peephole and open it to find my neighbor, Mrs. Gilmore, holding a plate of something that smells like heaven.

"I saw your light on, dear. Made too many cookies. Thought you might like some," she says, her eyes crinkling with warmth.

I take the plate, my heart swelling a bit. "Thank you, Mrs. Gilmore. You're an angel."

"Ah, just spreading some sugar." She winks, then shuffles back to her apartment across the hall.

I close the door, a genuine smile breaking through the gloom. The cookies, warm and loaded with chocolate chips, are a stark contrast to my sad dinner. I eat one, then another, contemplating the kind of job that would allow me to buy ingredients to make my own cookies—something simple, grounding.

The evening stretches on, a blend of job applications, cookie breaks, and contemplative stares out the window. My plants seem to nod in encouragement every time I glance their way, their leaves whispering in the faint breeze from my second-hand fan.

Eventually, I shut my laptop with a decisive click. Enough for tonight. I curl up on the couch, surrounded by colorful cushions and the comforting scent of Mrs. Gilmore's cookies, and allow myself a moment to just be.

A nap dusted with crumbs and a mini-nightmare about wrangling spoiled, rich kids—yep, this is the glamorous life I lead. As I blink awake, crumbs tumble from my chest to the couch, performing a tiny, tragic ballet of descent. Just as I'm about to cherish this peak moment of adulting, my phone dings with the enthusiasm of a toddler banging pots.

What now?

It's my landlady. The subject line alone is enough to make my stomach drop to my socks. I scan the email with a growing sense of doom. Two more weeks until the month ends… and I wave goodbye to my semi-stable, crumb-infested existence.

Fantastic.

I bury my face in my hands, which smell faintly of chocolate chips. Maybe I could scout for jobs in one of those posh areas of town? My resume is pretty decent. Clearly, I am the bottleneck here, being too choosy about my next family. But honestly, the thought of juggling cleaning, bedtime stories, managing tantrums, and ducking from the hair-pulling claws of a teenager who thinks the world owes them a runway isn't exactly what I had in mind for a thriving career.

No. I can't do it.

"Never again," I mutter to myself, a vow floating in the cramped space of my living room. I'm tired of working for affluent families who see me more as a convenient accessory than a caregiver.

As if on cue, the phone rings, slicing through the quiet aftermath of my rant. I glance at the caller ID—another unknown number, likely another family looking for a nanny. My finger hovers over the decline button, but curiosity wins. I swipe to answer, pressing the phone against my ear.

"Hello, Ella speaking."

"Hi, Ella, this is Diane from the Carter Agency. We found your resume and are impressed by your extensive experience. We have a high-profile client who is seeking a live-in nanny. Would you be available for an interview tomorrow?"

High-profile. The words taste like ash in my mouth. "Thank you, Diane, but I think I'll pass. I'm exploring other career options right now."

Diane's surprise is palpable even through the phone. "Are you sure, Ella? This is a very generous offer."

I muster a polite smile, though she can't see it. It pains me to let go of this offer, but I need to survive with an ounce of self-respect. That's all I have going for me right now. "I'm sure. But thank you for considering me."

I end the call with a sigh, tossing my phone beside me on the couch. No more. I can't keep doing this to myself, spinning my wheels in a cycle that leaves me more jaded with each turn.

On a whim, I decide to step out for a bite, a change of scenery to clear my head. I slip into my jacket, grab my keys, and head to the small bistro down the street. The night air is crisp, and the walk helps to loosen the knots of frustration in my shoulders.

The bistro is cozy, a local favorite with dim lighting and a rustic charm. I slide into a booth by the window, ordering a coffee and the daily special without much thought. As I wait, I gaze out at the passersby, each absorbed in their own little world.

My food arrives, and I'm halfway through my meal when a familiar voice interrupts my solitude.

"Ella, is that you?" The question is tentative, almost unsure.

I look up, and there he is—the man from the other night. The memory is a blur of shadows and whispers, but his face brings it all back. The handsome firefighter. Ethan. I've seen a lot of faces, but his I won't forget—even if I want to, purely for the sake of the inconvenient flutters in my heart.

"Ethan, right?" I reply, my voice steadier than I feel, delivering a performance worthy of an Oscar nominee pretending to vaguely remember someone.

His eyebrow quirks up, a silent, amused challenge to my act. "That's me." He grins, sliding into the seat across from me. "Small world."

"Seems like it," I murmur, stirring my drink with what I hope looks like absent-minded nonchalance, as if I'm dredging up who this handsome fellow might be from the foggy depths of my social calendar.

"Just grabbing some dinner after a long shift. Saw you sitting here and… well, I had to say hello." He's as smooth as the jazz playing softly in the background, and his smile is disarmingly genuine.

I pause, the spoon circling the ice in my glass like it's lost. "Hello, then," I finally say, dropping the amnesia act. "Suppose it's too late to pretend you have the wrong person?" I add with a playful tilt of my head, conceding to the small-town inevitability of our encounter.

We talk as we eat, the conversation flowing surprisingly smoothly. He tells me about his day at the fire station, the challenges and the triumphs. I share a bit about my job hunting woes, glossing over the finer details.

"You're looking for something new, then?" Ethan probes gently after I let slip my frustration with nannying.

"Something like that," I admit. "I'm tired of being the stand-in mom because the actual parents can't be bothered."

Ethan nods, understanding coloring his features. "Sounds tough. But you know, not all of us are like that. Some of us try to do right by our kids."

Us? I frown at him. Have I messed with the wrong kind of man?

He must have gauged my expression because he shakes his head quickly. "No, no—I'm no parent. I can barely keep cats alive, forget kids. My best friend, though, he's a single dad—the best one I know."

Ethan launches into an animated discussion about Marcus Big Mac McIntyre, the chief at Station 23. It's heartwarming to see the way he clearly idolizes him. Unwittingly enough, I find myself smiling more and more as the night grows deeper.

Slowly, our conversation shifts to lighter topics—our favorite books, movies, the quirky art that hangs on the bistro walls. It's easy, comfortable. And for a moment, I allow myself to just enjoy the company, the laughter.

The waitress brings a particularly divine tiramisu. Ethan and I clear our plates, pushing back from the table just enough to signal we're winding down but not yet ready to leave the cozy warmth of the bistro. Across from me, his eyes hold a spark of an idea, like he's been mulling over something more than just our casual dinner chat.

"Ella, before you say anything about what I'm about to propose, just hear me out, okay?" he starts, his hands gesturing to preemptively keep my objections at bay.

I lean in, intrigued. "I'm all ears," I reply, folding my hands on the table, my interest piqued by his serious tone.

"So, you mentioned you're looking for a place and a job, right?" He doesn't wait for my nod, barreling ahead with his thoughts. "And I know you said no more nannying, but what if this gig were different?"

I raise an eyebrow, a silent prompt for him to continue.

"It's for Marcus. He needs a nanny for Lily, his daughter. But it's not just any nanny job," Ethan rushes to explain, seeing the hesitation already forming on my face.

He continues, "He has a guest suite at his house—complete privacy, your own space. You'd live there, help out with Lily, and in return, you get free room and board plus a salary. It would cover all your bills, and then some."

The offer hangs in the air between us, weighty with possibilities. Free room and board plus a salary isn't something to dismiss easily, especially given my current financial crunch.

"I'd be living with them?" I clarify, trying to get a handle on the specifics. "At Marcus's place?"

"Exactly." Ethan nods enthusiastically. "You'd have your own part of the house. Marcus is at the station a lot, so he really needs someone trustworthy around. And from what I've seen and heard tonight, I think you could be a great fit."

I chew on my lip, considering. It's not just the financial relief that tempts me. It's the chance to maybe start fresh, even in a capacity I thought I'd sworn off. "What about my hours? I mean, would I have time for… for anything else?"

"Oh, totally," Ethan assures me. "Marcus is super flexible. He wants Lily to have a stable presence, but he understands personal time. You'd coordinate directly with him, figure out a schedule that works for everyone."

I take a deep breath, letting the idea swirl around in my mind. The practical part of me—the part that's been stressing over rent and bills—leans into the security the position offers. The independent part of me hesitates at the thought of stepping back into a role I thought I'd left behind.

"And I'd meet them first, right? Get to know Lily and see the living situation?" I ask, needing to know I'd have an out if it didn't feel right.

"Of course! Marcus would insist on that. He'd want you to feel comfortable, too," Ethan replies, his voice sincere.

I nod slowly, the gears in my mind turning. "Okay, I'll think about it. It does sound like a good deal… I just need to digest it a bit."

"Take all the time you need," Ethan says, a smile breaking across his face. "I'll let Marcus know you're interested, and we can set up a time for you to come by."

We stand, pulling on our jackets as we prepare to face the chilly evening air outside. As Ethan holds the door open for me, the reality of the situation begins to settle in. This could be the break I need, the anchor to pull me out of my current spiral.

"Thanks, Ethan," I say, stepping out into the night. "For dinner and for… well, for offering me a lifeline."

He laughs softly. "What are friends for, right? I'll talk to Marcus tonight. We'll get something sorted out soon."

I walk home, and the cool air feels less biting than before, filled instead with the potential of new beginnings.

Maybe, just maybe, this could work.

Once I get home, I curl up on the sofa with my laptop and attach my resume to an email.

"Here goes nothing," I mutter to myself as I click Send.