2. Lila

2

LILA

I love my job, I love my job, I love my job, I reminded myself on a constant loop as a nightmare child threw a hard plastic car directly at my head. I ducked just in time to avoid a concussion, and the kid had the nerve to laugh. Deep breaths, Lila, I reminded myself. I took those deep breaths as I tried ever harder to believe my internal mantra. I love my job. I love being a nanny. I love all children. Really, I do.

Right now, though, when I was faced with Reggie Mayhew, an eight year old who was much too sniveling and bratty to earn his full name of Reginald Marcus Anthony Mayhew III, I was questioning every decision I'd ever made that led me to this point. Leaving my small Midwest town for the lights of New York City, deciding to take up nannying as a way to work with kids and make enough money to afford my share of rent…

Okay, no matter how aggressively Reggie tried to ruin my day, he couldn't really make me regret that. I loved living in the big city with my two roommates, loved going to the bodega at the corner for snacks and to pet the stray cat that often lingered near the frozen foods on hot days. I even loved being crammed into the subway during peak commute times, despite the pungent odor of sardine-cozy New Yorkers in the stale air.

It was probably a little sad that thinking about these mundane, less-than-glamorous aspects of city life was helping me maintain my calm. But when Reggie hurled his smartphone at my head this time, he actually made contact—with my boob.

"Ouch," I let out accidentally. It felt like a misstep to show normal human weakness. Never let him know your next move, or something. But dang it, it really did hurt, even if I was blessed with an abundance of padding in that area, among others. At least I wouldn't be coming out of this day with a cracked skull. Instead, my boob would probably be bruised. And not even for fun reasons! I could hear my roommate, Gina's, voice in my head.

I grabbed the errant iPhone and shoved it in my own skirt pocket to keep it away from the little menace. Before the tantrum from hell, he'd been too absorbed in his screen to even acknowledge my attempts to connect with him. So at least I could make one positive difference in this kid's privileged life by taking away his phone for a while.

Of course, the second his phone was out of his sight, Reggie wailed like he was being murdered.

"Reggie, it's not nice to throw things, remember? You'll get it back when you learn not to throw it." I tried futilely to reason with the four-foot-tall menace.

"I don't care!" Reggie screamed with more power than his little lungs should allow. "Gimme it back! That's mine !"

"Your parents wouldn't want you to treat people this way," I told Reggie. I wasn't totally sure that was true, though. Rich kids like this often had parents who didn't care much either way, and though Reggie's mom and dad had been kind to me when I interviewed for this position, this little tantrum wasn't a huge vote of confidence for their parenting skills.

"Besides, you should take better care of your things," I added weakly, my voice shaking a little with a desire to cry. I couldn't show that level of weakness, though—this kid was a shark in the water. I squared my shoulders as his deceptively sweet face screwed up for another scream.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

At the moment, I hated myself a little bit, too.

I'd been so hopeful about this job when I first interviewed with the Mayhews. Their gorgeous brownstone was in a trendy area of Brooklyn, and the pay was miles better than any of the other gigs I was looking at before. Living in one of the most expensive cities in the country wasn't easy, and if I ever wanted to fulfill my dream of living alone, I had a lot of saving up to do. Like… so much, it was more of a pipe dream than a realistic goal. I'd already resigned myself to the fact that my dream of turning the spare room in a two-bed apartment into my dedicated writing space was out of reach, but I still had hopes of at least affording a studio someday.

It wasn't like my current living situation was unbearable or anything. The three-bedroom, fourth-floor walkup we shared was a surprisingly good deal considering it was larger than shoebox sized, in a convenient location for the subway, and we didn't even have bugs or ghosts or a toilet in our kitchen or anything. And I loved my roommates, who were also my best friends in the entire world and my personal hype-women. But as much as I loved nannying, my real dream was to be a published author someday, and it was harder to find a quiet place to write in the house with my two chaotic besties. Gina and Christine were always having impromptu dance parties in the living room, baking poorly in the kitchen, and bringing a rotating cast of attractive guys in and out of their bedrooms for the kinds of torrid affairs I could never imagine having myself. I couldn't concentrate on writing whimsical, magical books for kids with all of that happening around me.

Christine never quite said I was a stick-in-the-mud, but her assessment was basically a nicer, more affectionate way of saying that. "You're such a Virgo," she'd told me. "Our combined fiery energies are a little much for your stable, earthy heart, but you keep us grounded, girl."

Somehow, I didn't feel very grounded when a child was screaming loud enough to pierce my eardrums.

"Enough!" I decided, using my sternest, non-yelling voice with Reggie. I was morally opposed to yelling at children, even if right now I really, really wanted to. My declaration didn't faze him in the slightest, and he was still rioting all across his well-decorated playroom when I told him, "I'm going to talk to your dad!"

I marched down the gleaming hallway of the Mayhew house until I reached the sturdy wooden door of Mr. Mayhew's home office.

Of course, I lost steam once I was faced with the task of actually knocking on the door. What if he was in the middle of something important, something for his fancy job that I didn't understand, and he yelled at me for the interruption? I wasn't exactly feeling up to getting yelled at by a child and his father today. But the reminder of Reggie's nightmarishness helped me gather my courage. I rapped the hard wood surface with my knuckles twice, and in seconds, Mr. Mayhew was opening the door. I watched his face quickly transform from annoyance to warmth and accommodation.

"Ah, Liza," he said in a low tone, getting my name wrong as he always did. "What can I do for you this afternoon?"

I wasn't sure whether I was imagining it or not—I really, really hoped I was—but his eyes seemed to sweep over my body in a thorough scan that definitely included my breasts. I dressed pretty modestly in general, and especially for work, but somehow, I ignored the shiver of revulsion that gave me and cleared my throat.

"Um, can I talk to you for a minute? About Reggie?"

"Anything for you," he half-joked with a wink that made me kind of want to gag. "Come on in."

I followed Mr. Mayhew into his well-appointed office, my pulse doing a full tap routine in my ears while I tried to breathe through the anxiety. I'd never been good at dealing with authority figures. When I was in school, just the thought of being sent to the principal's office gave me hives. But I knew I wasn't in trouble, that I was doing this for the good of Reggie and myself, so I forced myself to push through the discomfort. Mr. Mayhew crossed the room to his office chair and gestured for me to take a seat across from him at his expensive executive desk, but I stayed standing. I wasn't sure I could access all of the courage I'd need if I were in a comfy armchair worth more than the car I'd sold when I moved to the city.

"Thanks for taking the time to see me," I started carefully. Even though I had no idea what Mr. Mayhew's high-paying job entailed, I knew I'd seen him on important-seeming conference calls before, and his Bluetooth earpiece was still in his ear now. He waved off the concern.

"Hey, it's no burden to talk to you ," Mr. Mayhew assured me in that almost-flirtatious way he had. He's just being friendly, I told myself as I went on. He's literally married with children!

"Um, anyway. So… I wanted to talk to you about Reggie's behavior, because it's been pretty unacceptable."

Heck yeah, I'd gotten the words out! I could hear Gina's voice in my head scolding me for softening my conviction—" Pretty unacceptable? More like totally fucking unacceptable! Use the backbone your mama gave you, girlfriend!"—but I was proud of myself anyway. Baby steps.

"Oh?" Mr. Mayhew cocked an eyebrow—blonder than his complexion should allow, so it almost blended into his surfer-tan skin. In a nervous habit, I licked my lips, immediately regretting it when his eyes darted to my mouth.

"He—Reggie—won't listen to anything I say," I pushed forward quickly, "and he's been throwing things, which he's definitely old enough to know is wrong. He actually hit me more than once. That's not okay, and I don't deserve that treatment."

"Sounds like he's being a bad, bad boy," Mr. Mayhew said, leaning back decadently in his leather office chair, crossing his feet on his desk, and staring me down with a salacious glint in his eye. I was still fairly innocent when it came to men, but neither of my roommates had let me stay naive, and that definitely felt inappropriate. Especially since he was talking about his kid . My heart was racing for an entirely new reason, now. No more unjustified anxiety, because now I had a reason to be afraid. Disgust crawled its cold way over my skin, too.

"He is," I answered shortly, without emotion. I would give him no way to think his advances were wanted. "A nightmare, actually. And I've worked with a lot of kids from much more difficult home situations than him who haven't behaved this poorly."

"You know," Mr. Mayhew said with a tone that told me hadn't listened to any of the words out of my mouth, "If my nanny had been as cute as you, I would've been a pretty bad boy, too."

Oh, yikes. It was a little harder to ignore such a blatant come-on. I shuffled on my feet, looking for something to say, or something to use as a weapon if it came to that. The small marble bust of some old dead guy that sat on the corner of his desk would work if my hands could stop shaking long enough to pick it up.

Somehow, I managed to croak out, "Um, that's nice, but not why I'm here."

It was more polite than I should have been, but barring a sudden personality switch, it was all I was capable of doing for now.

"Sure, sure." Mr. Mayhew waved off my rebuff. "You're here for Reggie. But let's be honest, Liz?—"

"Lila," I mumbled, color coming rapidly into my cheeks on a wave of rage and mortification.

"If I wanted parenting advice, I would've gone with someone a little more… experienced."

I froze. "I don't understand."

"I picked you for this gig," he said as he slowly stood and came around the desk, getting closer to me and amplifying my fight or flight response with every inch of ground I lost, "because I needed something sweet to look at around the house, y'know? And with those sexy little skirts you always wear…" He openly ogled me, his eyes sweeping over my exposed legs in a way that made me want to take a very long, very hot shower. "You must have known, right?"

My stomach churned, and then I felt his hand snake around to grab my butt. I yelped involuntarily, a squeaky sound like a kicked puppy would make.

Instantly, I recoiled from Mr. Mayhew's lecherous touch, jumping back from him as best I could and nearly stumbling over the chair he'd expected me to sit in. He looked amused by this, half-grinning and trying to move closer like he thought it was a game of cat and mouse I was playing just to tease him. Like I was in on the joke.

Absolutely not.

It was probably sad that this was the first time I'd ever been blatantly hit on. No one had ever touched me sexually before, and the newness of the experience would have been intimidating to me even if I'd wanted it. But Mr. Mayhew was creepy and leering and old enough to be my father, and I absolutely hated the idea of him touching me. Being the first person to touch me like this. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn't do it in front of him.

My voice shook, but I was able to get out a passably firm, "No, I didn't know. And you're a pig. I–I quit."

The adrenaline didn't start to settle until I'd already stormed out of his office in a huff. By the time I was hoofing it down the sidewalk toward the nearest subway station, the reality of my new situation was setting in like a dense, ominous fog.

I'd never quit anything in my life—and I'd just quit the highest-paying job I'd ever had. My only source of income. What on earth was I going to do now?