The Nanny with the Skull Tattoos: Chapter 3

Throwing open the front door of his apartment, Max called out, “Honey, I’m home!” He trudged inside, tracking snow in behind him.

Riley poked her head out of the kitchen, a squirming Chloe in her arms. “I’m not your honey,” she said, lifting Chloe for him to see. Sauce covered his daughter’s face, neck, and hands. “Please take her.”

Max laughed and set down the bags of groceries he carried. “You look good with a baby on you, Riles,” he said.

“Go fuck yourself,” Riley said with a grin. She shoved Chloe into his arms, streaking sauce on his coat. “You’re late and I have to go to work.” She grabbed her coat.

Tucking Chloe under one arm, he moved to stop Riley. “My last final ran over a bit. I had to stop for groceries. Don’t be mad.”

She shoved past him, ducking her head. Snow swirled inside from the still open door. Without another word, she stomped out.

Max sighed. Carrying Chloe into the kitchen, he whistled “Jingle Bells.” Chloe laughed. He sat her on the counter, grabbed a paper towel, and began cleaning her up. “Babies are supposed to get messy,” he muttered. “You’ve really done it this time, though.” As he dampened another paper towel, a ding from his computer announced a new email.

Blinking at Chloe with dark circles under his eyes, Max yawned. “I think we’ll take a nap on our new free couch,” he told his daughter. Picking her up again, he carried her past the bags of groceries on the floor and flopped down on the couch. He sat her on his lap and, taking her hands in his, lifted her arms into the air. “Whee!” he cooed. She giggled, but yanked her hands away. Scooting down from his lap, she lowered herself to the floor.

“Suit yourself,” he said, laying back. He watched as she toddled over to the desk, and tucked an arm behind his head. “Daddy’s just gonna rest,” he yawned. His eyelids drooped, and exhaustion tugged at him. As he drifted away, his daughter burbled one tiny word.

“Ding!”

Cracking an eye open, he looked at her. She sat on the chair at his desk, her hands slapping at the keyboard of his laptop. “Oh, no you don’t,” he said, struggling to his feet.

The screen lit up and the computer came to life, his email program open on the screen. Crossing the room, he plucked Chloe from the chair and put her on the floor. “No computer for you,” he told her. As he leaned forward to close the laptop, he noticed that he had a new email. Reading the subject line, he settled into his chair, his fatigue swept away by surprise. His eyes widened.

“Looks like someone responded to our ad,” he said, clicking it open.

Inside the email, a link took him to the responder’s resume. “Savannah Santos,” he read out loud. He scanned through her credentials. She had watched three other children before, all of them under the age of six. Nodding to himself, Max read the rest of it. She was a student at Naugatuck Valley Community College, or had recently graduated. The resume didn’t specify.

Her cover letter said she was available immediately. Rubbing at the light stubble on his face, Max read through her resume again. She seemed perfect. She even mentioned something about providing educational activities. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed her number. Blood pounded in his head as he lifted the phone to his ear.

It rang. He swallowed hard. It rang again. He curled his free hand into a loose fist, sweat dampening his palms. If this girl was really available right away, he could call the music store and pick up some extra hours. They always needed extra help during the holiday season.

On the third ring, she picked up. “Savannah Santos,” she answered. Her voice was soft but commanding in a professional way. She sounded like she was probably from the Waterbury area. Most people from the city had a combination of a New York accent and Connecticut accent. No trace of a Hispanic accent laced her voice, despite her Puerto Rican last name.

“Uh, hi,” Max said, his mind racing. He struggled to gather his thoughts. “This is Max Batista. I’m calling about your email for the nanny position,” he finished, making it sound more like a question. He realized he had no idea how to talk to her. She was probably around the same age as he was. He wasn’t sure if he should try to sound like her boss, or if he should try to be friendly. He definitely couldn’t talk to her the way he talked to Riley, he mused with a smirk.

“Hi,” she said brightly, her voice still professional. “Did you get my resume?”

“I did,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the desk, trying to think of what he should say next. “I’d like to, um, set up an interview.” There. That sounded right. He glanced at the time on his computer. It was after two. “Are you free to meet this afternoon?”

“Sure,” she said, right away. “Where do you want to meet?”

Max licked his lips. He probably shouldn’t have her come to the apartment right away. It was a mess at the moment. Plus, if she turned out to be some kind of crazy, he didn’t want her to know where he lived. “Coffee shop,” he blurted. “You know, the one right on the Cheshire line.”

“Cheshire Coffee? Sure,” she said. “I can be there for 2:30. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” he said, eyeing Chloe. His daughter had pulled all of the canned vegetables out of one of the shopping bags and stacked them into a tower. If nothing else, the kid was definitely creative. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Great,” Savannah said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Hanging up, Max yawned again. Despite his excitement, he still felt tired. Coffee would definitely help wake him up, even if Savannah turned out to be a dud. Closing the laptop, he stood from the desk. If he was lucky, Savannah would be exactly what he needed.

* * *

Pulling Chloe out of her car seat, Max turned toward the building. Cheshire Coffee was nestled into a fairly new plaza, between a day spa and frozen yogurt shop. The parking lot was full for a weekday afternoon. More than likely, most of the people there were students prepping for exams. Balancing his daughter in his arms, he shut the car door and ambled toward the building. Cold wind swooped down from the sky, and Chloe burrowed into his chest. Max quickened his pace.

Inside, they were greeted with a blast of warm air and a smiling barista.

“What can I get you to warm you up?” she called over the light chatter of customers. The tables were crowded, especially the ones in front of the fireplace. Max bit his lip, scanning the faces. He realized that he had no idea what Savannah looked like.

“Chocolate milk and a cookie for this one,” he said, “and a half coffee, half hot chocolate for me.”

While he waited, he sidled down to the other end of the counter. He glanced at the faces in the coffee shop again. Businessmen sat hunched over laptops. A group of college-aged people sat, chatting animatedly, free of textbooks. Two women who looked like they might be sisters occupied another table, young children tucked between them. In the back corner, sitting at a table alone, a young woman with dark hair and golden brown skin watched him. A black peacoat was slung over the back of her chair. She wore jeans with boots and a short sleeved tee, exposing an arm of bright tattoos. She watched him with curious, luminous eyes. He looked away, turning back to the barista, who handed him his order.

“Thanks,” he said, balancing the drinks and Chloe.

“Here,” a soft voice said at his side. Brown hands reached out for his drinks, plucking them away.

He turned to find the girl from the back table at his side. Her dark eyes sparkled. Cocking his head, he dragged his eyes up from her sleeve of tattoos. Close up, he could see that they were colorful skulls. He frowned.

“I’m Savannah,” she said, turning away and leading him back toward the table. “I’m assuming you’re Max and Chloe.”

He followed her, too dumbstruck to speak. All he could see were the tattoos that covered every inch of her arm. They wound around the back of her bicep and forearm, a solid stream of skulls in a variety of colors. His eyes widened.

Savannah set the drinks down at the table and resumed her seat. Smiling at him, she waved to Chloe. “Hi, pretty girl,” she cooed. Dimples appeared in her cheeks.

Chloe waved back.

“Is it cold outside?” Savannah asked Chloe.

His daughter shook her head. Every time it snowed, she practically begged to go outside.

Max folded himself into the chair opposite Savannah, balancing Chloe on his lap. He dragged his eyes up from Savannah’s arm to her face.

“So,” Savannah said, turning her attention to him. “She’s two?” The smile remained on her face. Aside from the tattoos, she was kind of pretty.

“What?” Max asked, tearing his gaze away. He looked down at Chloe, who held up her bottle of chocolate milk.

“How old is she?” Savannah asked.

“Oh,” he said, opening the bottle and handing it back to Chloe. “Almost three.”

“Perfect,” Savannah said. “I used to watch a two-year-old little girl.”

Recovering, Max nodded. His thoughts stopped spinning and he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. “Have you ever lived with the families of the kids you watched?” There. That sounded like a good, boss-like question.

“I spent a summer in Florida with the last family I worked for.” She sipped at a large cup of what Max assumed was coffee. Its contents were hidden by the cardboard to-go cup. She wrapped her fingers around it, and Max’s eyes returned to her tattoos.

“What happened with the last family?” he asked, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Why did you stop watching their kids?”

“They started school,” Savannah said, waving a hand. She seemed not to notice him staring. Aside from the sleeve, she seemed to have no other piercings or tattoos. He wondered when she had gotten them, if she had them while watching the other families’ children, or if the sleeve was new. He couldn’t imagine her getting an entire sleeve in one sitting. He didn’t have any tattoos himself, but Levi had one, a phoenix on his upper back, right at the nape of his neck. If he needed to cover it, he could wear a shirt. Max wondered how Savannah hid her tattoos. She seemed not to care. She lifted her eyebrows at him, a bemused expression crossing her face.

“What?” he asked, snapping his attention back to the conversation.

“I asked you if she’s potty-trained,” Savannah said. “I’ve done it before, but it’s always easier if they already are.”

“No,” he said. “She isn’t.”

“Okay. No biggie.” Savannah grinned at Chloe, and the little girl smiled back. She reached a tiny hand out for the cookie in the middle of the table. Savannah unwrapped it and handed it to her. Chloe broke it into two nearly even halves, and held one out to Savannah. “Oh, thank you,” Savannah said. “That’s yours, though. You eat it.”

Giggling, Chloe took a big bite out of one half.

Max smiled at his daughter. She seemed to be totally unfazed by Savannah’s appearance. Maybe he was being ridiculous. Tattoos weren’t exactly anything new, and Savannah didn’t appear to be in a biker gang or anything. Still, the skulls were unsettling, despite their mascara-lined eyes and bright lips. Thick, black filigrees, dots, and bright flowers decorated each skull’s face. He wondered what kind of woman put something so sinister on her body permanently.

“So,” Savannah said, clasping her hands in front of her. “I know you said in your post that you needed someone immediately. And it’s a live-in position?”

Max nodded. “I have a third bedroom,” he said quickly, trying not to appear like some overeager creep. “The pay includes basic living expenses.” His eyes flicked again to Savannah’s arm. One of the skulls looked like a cat’s. A nervous ball formed in the pit of his stomach. He was glad that he didn’t have any pets. He grabbed his cup of coffee, the heat from it grounding him in the present moment.

“Cool,” Savannah said. “It actually works perfectly, because I’ve been looking for a place.” She tossed her long, dark hair over her shoulder. When she moved, the soft spicy scent of her perfume floated to him on the air. He inhaled and for a moment, his brain went fuzzy. He stared at her, transfixed. If she wasn’t some kind of baby skull collector, she was definitely intriguing. Even more importantly, Chloe seemed to like her. “How soon do you need me to start?” Savannah asked, yanking him out of his thoughts once again.

“Tonight, if you can,” he said, watching her. No one would be able to start a job on the same day. He could use that as an excuse to not hire her. Surely, someone else would respond. He could keep using Riley as backup, and maybe he could talk his dad into taking Chloe a couple times a week. No matter how pretty Savannah was or how nice she seemed, no nanny should have skull tattoos.

“Sounds good,” Savannah said. She took another sip of her coffee.

Max kept his face neutral in an effort to hide his disappointment. “Awesome,” he said. He tightened his grip on Chloe. “I grabbed a few things at the grocery store earlier, but we should probably pick up some other things.”

“I can come with you, keep an eye on Miss Chloe while you do what you’ve gotta do,” Savannah said. Without waiting for him to answer, she stood from her seat. In one fluid motion, she swung her coat off the back of the chair and pulled it on. It fell to almost her knees, but it didn’t look like something a serial killer would wear.

Taking a deep breath, Max stood up, too. He needed to work as much as possible before the spring semester began. He couldn’t afford to wait for someone else to respond to his ad. Besides, as much as his father loved his granddaughter, Max knew that he wouldn’t watch her. His mother would intercept, telling him that they needed to let their son figure things out for himself.

With the holidays coming up, he would need help with Chloe even more. He sighed. “Let’s do this,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

Savannah gathered Chloe’s cookie and the rest of her chocolate milk, tucking it into a leather tote that Max hadn’t noticed. The gold logo jumped out at him, clear as day: Versace. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. As if seeing the bag had opened up some third eye, he realized for the first time that she wore Ugg boots and that her coat was Versace, too. “Ready?” she asked him.

Nodding, he led the way out of the coffee shop, his mind whirling. Those weren’t just brand names—they were high fashion. He didn’t have any sisters, but his brothers’ wives and girlfriends all went crazy for those things. His oldest brothers complained all of the time about their wives’ spending habits, and how they were glad they had gone into the family law business.

“Have a great day,” the barista called after them. Max pushed open the door and stepped outside, Chloe nestled in his arms. Cold wind gusted at them, and he bent his head against it, surging forward. He didn’t check to see if Savannah followed, but he heard the door close behind them.

“I’m parked over there,” Savannah said. He turned and saw her jerk a thumb toward the rest of the parking lot. “Where are you?”

He nodded at the Taurus, cheeks blazing despite the cold. He wondered what kind of car she drove. It would be ironic if, after he had judged her tattoos, he ended up looking like trash. With numb fingers, he pulled his car keys out of his pocket.

“I’ll follow you out,” she called, turning and walking in the opposite direction.

He grunted and opened the door to the backseat. Strapping Chloe in as quickly as possible, he planted a kiss on his daughter’s forehead and jogged around to the other side of the car. Cold air blasted from the heater vents. He shivered and turned the knob down, wondering how long it would take for Savannah’s car to warm up. She probably had a Lexus or BMW, with heated leather seats.

It served him right. Still, he wondered what someone with so much money was doing, babysitting for a living. Even though she would be living with him, he wouldn’t be paying her enough to finance a luxury car. Clutching the steering wheel, he grimaced as a grisly thought entered his mind. Maybe she sold children’s organs on the black market. He had heard that kidneys were actually pretty expensive.

Closing his eyes, he shook the thoughts away. He needed to stop. He was acting like some worrywart old grandmother. His brothers would call him an overprotective sissy, and Riley would say that his concern for his daughter was gross. He needed to not be gross, especially if a woman who wore Versace was going to live with him.

A dark car pulled up behind him and flashed its lights. In the rearview mirror, he couldn’t tell what make or model it was, but it was definitely Savannah. The air spewing from his car’s vents was still far from warm, but he didn’t want her to think that his car was a piece of crap—even if it kind of was.

He pulled out of his parking spot and inched his way to the exit. Savannah stayed right behind him. It occurred to him that he could just speed off and lose her. Then he would never have to see her again. It wouldn’t matter who she was or why she had so many tattoos. He could quit school, find a nine-to-five job at a bank or something, and put Chloe in day care.

He didn’t want to be that kind of father, though, even if plenty of people put their kids in school at a young age. From the day she was born, he had promised her that he would take care of her. Even if she had a live-in nanny, he would still spend more time with her than if she were in school all day.

A few minutes later, he pulled into a parking spot in front of the grocery store. Savannah carefully slid into the spot next to him. At least she was a good driver. Shutting the engine off, he opened his door and got out. As he headed toward Chloe’s door, he saw Savannah following him out of the corner of his eye. Her hand reached toward the handle.

“I’ve got it,” he said, lifting a hand.

“No problem,” she said, hanging back.

He opened Chloe’s door and unstrapped her. Lifting her into his arms, he rested his cheek against her head for a moment. Then, remembering their mission, he headed toward the grocery store.

Inside, he chose a cart and slid her into the seat. She kicked her legs against the metal, her shoes clanging. Max wrapped his fingers around the bar and began to push her toward the produce section.

“How are you supposed to test me,” Savannah called behind him, “if you’re pushing her?”

He paused, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He was being a tad overprotective. “Habit,” he said, stepping away from the cart. Swallowing hard, he watched as Savannah took control. She rolled the cart slowly, letting him lead the way. As they neared the fruits and vegetables, he prayed that he hadn’t made a huge mistake. Kids were abducted every day.

“So what do you need to get?” Savannah asked, gently tucking Chloe’s arm away from a shelf of apples.

He blinked. He didn’t exactly have a list. He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “what do you like?”

Her lips parted in a little O, and he realized that they were full, pink and soft looking. For a second, he wondered what it would be like to kiss those lips. Heat flushed his cheeks, and he looked away, busying himself with selecting apples.

“Are apples okay?” he asked, ducking his head down.

“Sure,” she said. The scent of her perfume wafted his way again, and he felt himself get a little lightheaded. Great. On top of worrying about her tattoos and potential involvement with a cult of nannies or the black market, he was attracted to her.

He filled a bag with some apples and tossed them into the cart, already moving into the next aisle. “Chloe loves bananas,” he said, picking up two bunches. “She’ll eat them all day if you let her.”

“Noted,” Savannah said, wheeling Chloe up behind him. “What doesn’t she like?”

“Big raviolis,” he said, turning back to them. Savannah cocked her head, raising an eyebrow. “She likes the mini ones,” he explained.

Snorting, Savannah tapped Chloe’s nose lightly. “So no big ones,” she said. “Got it.”

Max moved away from the produce aisle, heading toward the rest of the store. “I just need bread and milk,” he said, visualizing his refrigerator. “If there’s anything you want, just grab it.”

“Okay,” Savannah said behind him. He heard the squeak of the cart and Chloe babbling to herself. Then, Savannah started singing. Her voice was soft and sweet, and although he didn’t understand the words, warmth pooled through his body. His shoulders relaxed a bit.

The rest of the shopping trip went smoothly. Savannah kept Chloe from grabbing random things off shelves and hurling them to the floor. She only selected a few things for herself: a bag of rice, two cans of black beans, a package of boned pork, and some Adobo.

“I like to cook,” she said with a shrug.

By the time they loaded everything into Max’s car, Chloe had fallen asleep. He tucked her into her seat, her head drooping against the pillowed fabric. Then he turned to Savannah, the address for his apartment dancing on his lips. He knew it was stupid to judge a person just from one shopping trip, but so far, she seemed like a good fit. Chloe really liked her, too.

He just hoped that they could all live together.


Single dad Max isn’t looking for love—or so he thinks.

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Chapter 1 · Chapter 2 · Chapter 3 · Chapter 4 · Chapter 5

The Nanny with the Skull Tattoos: Chapter 5

Icy snow seeped into the canvas of Max’s sneakers. He jumped, yelping, and dashed from his parked car. Every step he took brought more icy water into his shoes. He swore as he stomped through slushy puddles of half-melted snow. Tilting his head back, he stuck his middle finger up at the gray December sky. Toes going numb, he clambered onto the front porch, then opened the front door to his apartment, thankful that he had gotten the first floor.

Heat blasted him as he stepped inside, and his shoulders sagged in relief. He kicked off his shoes and unzipped his coat.

“Daddy?” Chloe called from somewhere in the house.

“Hi, baby girl,” he called back, draping his coat over the old gas heater. He splayed his fingers over the humped bars, the warmth sending tingles through his nerves. He shuffled closer and slid his feet underneath. Reaching down, he peeled off his soaked socks and laid them out over the heater to dry.

“Daddy, come here,” his daughter called.

Patting the heater, he ambled toward the back of the apartment. The doors to his bedroom and Savannah’s room were closed, but light spilled into the hall from Chloe’s room. Max’s bare feet pressed into the carpet as he neared the open door, reveling in the warmth oozing through his body. Poking his head in, he gazed through the room, searching for his daughter.

She sat in a pile of pink and purple tissue paper. Savannah sat next to her, slender brown fingers a blur. Max blinked, leaning against the doorframe. Pink and purple tissue paper flowers adorned the walls of the once plain bedroom, bursting from the wall and decorating the top bars of Chloe’s crib.

Savannah grinned at him, shrugging a shoulder. “What do you think?”

Chloe squealed, dipped her small hands into the pile of tissue paper, and flung some up into the air like confetti. Kicking her feet, she laughed.

Max felt the remaining ice melt from his face as his own lips curled into a smile. “How did you do this?” he asked, entering the room. He scooped Chloe up, tissue paper floating from her tiny legs. Twirling, he flung her into the air, snatching her just before she hit the ground. She shrieked with laughter.

“Dollar store,” Savannah said, watching as he threw Chloe into the air again. She drew her knees up to her chest. “Are you hungry?”

“Starving,” Max said, tossing Chloe up again. Her wispy hair flew out in all directions, her limbs splayed. He caught her again and snuggled her to his chest, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I missed you,” he told her.

Savannah climbed to her feet. “Come on,” she said. “Dinner’s ready.”

He followed her into the kitchen, his nose catching the scent of garlic for the first time. A platter of spaghetti and meatballs sat on the table next to a pile of garlic bread. “I didn’t even know we had this stuff in the house,” he said.

Savannah picked up a slice of garlic bread. “Hot dog buns,” she said, handing it to him. “And I used the rest of the red peppers in the sauce.”

“Is there anything you can’t cook?” he asked as he strapped Chloe into her high chair.

“Try it first,” she said. “My ex always said my meatballs were too soggy.”

Max froze. “Your ex?” He winced at the squeak in his voice. Jealousy pitted in his stomach. He ran a hand through his hair, the back of his neck flushing. It was stupid of him to think that Savannah wouldn’t be off the market. Of course she was dating. She was beautiful and she knew how to cook. Just because she always had dinner on the table for him and decorated his daughter’s room didn’t mean that she was his girlfriend. He swallowed hard. The guys she dated probably spoke three languages and lived in Puerto Rico part-time.

The sound of a chair scraping across the floor brought him back to the present moment. “Yeah, he couldn’t even make pancakes,” she said, sitting down. She piled a dish with spaghetti and three meatballs, then held it out to Max.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it and setting it down in front of him. He sat across from her, his heart hammering in his chest. “So what does your boyfriend think of all this?” he said, trying to keep his voice casual.

“My boyfriend?” She snorted. “If I had one, he would be ridiculously jealous, blowing up my phone. I always end up with insecure assholes.”

“Yeah, right,” he said. “You drive a BMW.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. He flushed.

“So what?” she said.

“I just mean, like attracts like.” He shoved a bite of meatball into his mouth before he could do any more damage.

She scrunched up her eyebrows at him. “Sure,” she said, eyeing him.

“Good meatballs,” he said with his mouth full.

“Thanks,” Savannah said, filling her own plate. She twirled spaghetti around her fork. Silence settled around him.

Max cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about the other night,” he said. Despite the heat in the apartment, cold sweat dotted his hairline. “I was kind of a dick.”

“Kind of?” she said, but her dimples flashed and her lips curled into a smile. “I’m sorry, too. It’s none of my business. I just want to help.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “And you’re great. This is great.” He motioned to the spread of food on the table and to Chloe, whose face was covered in sauce and spaghetti. His eyes widened. “Chloe, no!”

Savannah laughed. “It’s okay. She needs a bath tonight anyway. No problem. You just focus on your work.” She reached for a slice of garlic bread. “So, what are you studying, anyway?”

Even though he was sitting, Max’s knees went weak. “Um, just elementary ed,” he said, preparing another bite of meatball.

Savannah’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re gonna be a teacher? That’s cool!”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“No, it really is. I could never do anything like that.” The smile evaporated from her face, a longing expression burning in her eyes. Her gaze drifted away from the table, toward the living room. Her eyebrows slanted down.

Max frowned. “It’s really no big deal. I mean, my brothers are lawyers and authors and doctors. I’ll be lucky if I graduate.” He forced a laugh, despite his heart slamming in his chest.

“You will,” Savannah said, her eyes meeting his. She smiled.

He snorted. “No, really, I’m barely passing. You have to have a really high GPA. My dad wanted me to join my older brothers in the family law business.” He bit his lower lip, wondering why he was telling her so much. He should be talking himself up, not knocking himself down. Girls like Savannah wanted confident men, not family fuckups like him.

She muttered something in Spanish, her hands flying as she spoke.

He blinked at her. “English?”

Rolling her eyes, she huffed a sigh. “My dad’s a granite countertop contractor, and my mom’s a home designer.”

Max snorted laughter. “My mom’s doing that now, too. That’s why she kicked me out, so she could use the space I was apparently taking up as her office.”

Savannah twisted her lips. “Um, I meant she, like, designs houses. She draws up the plans in a CAD program.”

“Oh,” Max said, running a hand through his hair.

“They kicked me out when I dropped out of college,” she said quickly.

He blinked at her. “You dropped out of college?”

She nodded and flashed him a dancing thumbs-up. “Mmn-hmn. I was going to Naugatuck Valley for fine arts.”

Frowning, Max cut a meatball in half. “Why did you drop out?”

Her eyes glinted. “I failed math.”

“You couldn’t retake it?” he asked, dropping his fork.

“I also failed English.”

He stared at her. “Like, composition?”

She nodded. “And psychology. Basically every class that wasn’t art. I even failed art history.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to paint.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but how the hell do you fail all of those classes?”

She pointed a finger at him. “Watch it, pendejo.”

He stuffed spaghetti into his mouth, shoulders hunching.

“School is hard,” she said. “They gave me that BMW when I finished high school, but then they freaked out when I said I wanted to study art. I mean, what the hell? I guess it’s because I’m the only child. They wanted me to take over the family business.” She rolled up her sleeves, exposing the tattoos. “Can you imagine me designing houses for rich people? Screw that.”

Max’s heart pounded in his chest. He and Savannah weren’t much different, he realized. Despite his initial assumptions, he just might have a shot with her. “So you don’t have a boyfriend,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual.

She lifted an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Clearing his throat, he put on what he hoped was an innocent expression. “I just mean, I totally get it. My ex is crazy. She doesn’t even want to see Chloe.”

Savannah’s eyes darted toward his daughter, and her gaze softened. “Bendita,” she said, frowning. “Why not?”

Max shook his head. “I don’t know. We dated for two years in high school, and she got pregnant our senior year. Her parents didn’t want her to have the baby, and she wanted to have—well, I stepped in for full custody, and we had to fight in court. Luckily I have a lot of lawyers in the family.” He forced a smile, but his heart ached at the memories. He swallowed hard, remembering the look on Nicole’s face when she told him what she planned to do with their unborn baby. Tears sprang to his eyes.

“Okay, happier conversation,” Savannah said, thrusting another piece of garlic bread at him. “How much do my meatballs suck?” She grinned, but she squeezed his hand.

“They’re really good,” he said, taking a bite out of the garlic bread with his free hand. He sighed and squeezed her hand back, his heart racing. “Any guy who criticizes your cooking is an idiot. I would totally starve without you.” He smiled.

“You’ll see,” she said. “I’ll have you speaking Spanish and making sofrito verde by the time Chloe’s three.” She grinned.

“Yeah, I can’t even boil water,” he said, smiling back. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Stop saying you can’t,” she said. “Every time you say you can’t, you knock yourself down a peg. You’ve gotta stay positive. You don’t see me saying I can’t, just because I dropped out of college. I can do anything I want.” Her eyes smoldered. Max swallowed hard. He realized they were still holding hands. He gently pulled his away, shifting in his seat. His pants tightened. Blood roared in his ears. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself for the millionth time that he needed to keep things professional between them.

Savannah stood and went to the kitchen sink. She dampened a towel and returned to the table. “I mean, think about this. I have like, no experience as a nanny. But I like kids, and I can cook. Here I am.” She put Chloe’s empty dish on the table and began cleaning his daughter’s hands and face.

“Wait, what do you mean, ‘no experience’?” Max asked, his eyes widening.

“I mean, I’ve watched my little cousins,” she said with a shrug. “My point is, if you don’t focus on your good qualities and only your bad ones, you’ll never get anywhere.” Tapping Chloe’s nose with her finger, she smiled. Chloe giggled. Savannah lifted the little girl from her high chair.

“So you lied to me?” he asked, frowning.

“More like I highlighted my good experience,” she said with a wink. “Do you trust me any less?”

Max rested his chin on one hand. So far, she hadn’t done anything to make him think she was a threat to his daughter or him. He shook his head. “Maybe I’m stupid, but no. I trust you.”

“You’re not stupid, Max.” Savannah cuddled Chloe. “People like us just have to work a little harder. But we’ve got street smarts. I mean, look at you. You got kicked out of your parents’ house, yet you were capable enough to find a place for you and your daughter to live. You can’t cook, yet you were smart enough to find someone who can.” She stuck her tongue out at him, her eyes dancing as she teased.

His skin tingled. He took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he said, his thoughts swirling. It seemed like she was flirting with him. He swallowed hard. “You’re right,” he told her.

“Of course I am,” she said. “I know more than you do. I’m older and I can speak Spanish.” With a wink, she turned and left the kitchen, carrying Chloe into the bathroom.

Feeling slightly dizzy, Max remained sitting. He stared at the spaghetti and meatballs, and the saucy towel on the table. From the bathroom, he could hear the water running and Chloe giggling. Savannah’s sweet voice drifted to him, a song in Spanish that he had never heard. He had no idea where she had come from or why she had decided to work for him, but he was glad. They had more in common than he had initially thought. Shame washed over him for judging her so quickly, but only briefly.

She had said that she didn’t have a boyfriend. She made dinner for him every night, even though he had only hired her to look after Chloe. She had even decorated his daughter’s room, out of her own will and pocket. His heart pounded in his chest. She teased him every chance she got. Sometimes, the way she looked at him reminded him of the way Nicole had looked at him, back when they had first started dating, when things were good.

Maybe he was crazy, but he was beginning to wonder if he had a chance with Savannah—and whether he should take it.


Single dad Max isn’t looking for love—or so he thinks.

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Chapter 1 · Chapter 2 · Chapter 3 · Chapter 4 · Chapter 5

The Nanny with the Skull Tattoos: Chapter 2

Three days after his mother told him it was time, Max packed his and Chloe’s few belongings into his beat up old Taurus, strapped his daughter into her car seat, and left his childhood home. His little girl kicked the seat behind him the whole way, and he drove with a box in his lap, but he was free. In a weird sort of way, it felt good to move out.

When he dropped the last box on what would eventually be the living room floor, Max turned to Chloe. She sat on the floor by the double windows, a toy clutched in one of her hands. “Well, Chloe, here we are. Home, sweet home.” He looked around the nearly empty room, frowning. His mother had let him take his desk, twin bed, and all of Chloe’s furniture, but he had nothing else. “Lonely home,” he amended.

“Daddy,” Chloe said, and turned away from him.

Shrugging, he ambled into the kitchen to start unpacking. It took three minutes. He spent two minutes trying to open the box, and another minute putting his daughter’s baby food into a cabinet. Stomach growling, he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“Guess I’ll order some pizza,” he said. “Chloe, are you going to eat some pizza?”

His daughter gave no response, babbling happily to herself as she smashed two plastic action figures against each other in the living room.

He called his favorite pizza place, ordered a large pepperoni, and returned to the living room to watch Chloe. Then, his phone still in his hand, he scrolled through his contacts. “I think I know who’ll take that third bedroom,” he told Chloe.

“Hey, asshole,” his best friend, Riley, answered in her best fake British accent.

“Hey, yourself,” he told her. “I just ordered a huge pepperoni pizza. Wanna split it?”

She snorted. “Short on cash?”

“Nope,” he said. “I was hoping you’d come keep my bed warm. I’m all alone in my new apartment and it’s scary by myself.”

“Maybe some other time,” she said, laughing. “Wait, what? You got your own apartment?”

“If you bring beer, I’ll let you get drunk and sleep on my floor.” He stretched his legs out, pointing the toes of his scuffed Nikes toward the ceiling.

“I wish I had my own place,” Riley said. “My parents are killing me.”

Grinning, Max gave Chloe the thumbs up sign. “Well,” he said, drawing out the word. “I happen to have a third bedroom, empty and ready for you.”

“Wow,” Riley said. “I don’t know what to say. This is so . . . sudden.”

Max laughed. “Seriously, though.” He wished she was sitting right across from him. It would be easier to read her face.

“Seriously?” she said.

“Why not?” Riley had been his only high school friend to stick around after Nicole got pregnant. “You, me, Chloe. We’d be a happy family. And you could help me fill this place with furniture. Don’t you get a discount at Kohl’s?”

“Barely,” Riley said. “We don’t sell much furniture, anyway. When did you move out of your parents’ house?”

Max lifted his eyebrows. “I guess I didn’t tell you.” He filled her in, feeling a little bad for not calling her first. Luckily, Riley had never been the needy kind of friend that demanded every detail of his life. They just worked.

“That’s crazy! Your mom just kicked you out? What is she gonna do, use your room as an office?”

“If that was the case,” he said, “she could have used one of the guest bedrooms, or the spare room they’re using for storage.”

“Christmas decorations and Martha Stewart catalogs,” Riley said. “It would be the perfect storefront.”

“Seriously, though,” Max said. “You can move in whenever you want.”

For a moment, Riley was silent. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Why not?” Max jumped up and went to the front window. He peered out into the dark street at a passing car, but the car didn’t slow. “You complain about living with your parents all the time.”

“Duh,” she said, “but I can’t exactly pay rent on makeup commission.”

“I thought you said the stuff you sell is expensive.” He watched another car approach, hoping it was his pizza.

“I still don’t get paid that much. It sucks.”

He frowned. “Damn, I really thought you would be all over this. I need someone to help me out with Chloe.”

“I would if I could, handsome. I can help out when I’m not working,” Riley offered.

“Thanks, Riles. I need someone in between, too, though. I can get extra hours at the music store and make rent no problem, but Chloe can’t exactly stay here by herself, and my mom won’t watch her anymore.” A car pulled up in front of the house, and a guy wearing a Yankees cap got out of the driver’s seat. He jogged around to the passenger side and pulled out a box of pizza. Max opened the door and pulled out a twenty.

“Why don’t you post an ad online?” Riley said, laughing.

As Max shut the door, holding the pizza box in one hand and holding his phone with the other, he froze. “That’s actually not a bad idea.” He strode toward the kitchen.

Riley snorted. “I was kidding, dumb dumb.”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of a good idea.” Max opened the pizza box; cheese bubbled around overflowing slices of pepperoni. He inhaled and sighed, grinning. Then he grimaced. He had no plates.

“Please don’t do that,” Riley said.

“Why not?” he asked, lifting a slice from the pie. Heat seared his fingers. He dropped it onto the cardboard lid.

“Because you’ll end up with an axe murderer or something. I don’t really care if you get killed, but I like Chloe.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly, lifting the slice of pizza again. It was still hot, but he took a bite from it, slurping. “You’re missing out on some really good pizza.”

“Why don’t you put her in like, a day care or something?” Riley asked. “My sister uses Easter Seals. They’re accredited and shit, so your kid gets an education, too.”

“I don’t work nine to five,” Max said, taking another bite. “Plus I’m not really ready for her to go to school yet.”

“Gross,” Riley said. “Please don’t be that creepy father with attachment issues.”

“I don’t have attachment issues,” Max said, putting his slice down. “She’s only two. She’s still so little. I want her to be a kid.”

“Why don’t you have one of your brothers watch her, then? What about the journalist? Don’t writers work from home?” Riley asked.

Max plucked a slice of pepperoni from the pizza and popped it into his mouth. “He still has to work at the newspaper,” he said, chewing. “And the rest of them are too busy. I’ll just post an ad.”

No,” Riley said. The tone she used reminded him of his mother.

“Are you gonna be my live-in nanny?” Max asked.

She sighed. “No.”

“Then I’ve gotta go. I need my phone,” he said, and hung up before she could suggest anything else. He pointed a finger at Chloe. “You are not going to school yet, young lady.” He opened his browser and went to Craigslist. Scrolling through, he passed listings of free and cheap furniture. They would come in handy later. He went to the jobs section and started a new topic: “FULL-TIME NANNY, BEDROOM AVAILABLE.”

He cross-posted it to the apartments section, then picked up another slice of pizza.

* * *

Snow swirled down from the sky, coating the Taurus and the asphalt of the parking lot. Max stared at the screen of his laptop, completely oblivious. His finger twitched toward the refresh button, clicking it for the tenth time in the last minute. Still no responses.

Gritting his teeth, he drummed his fingers on the keyboard. Two weeks had passed since he originally posted the ad, and not a single person had replied. Next to him sat a stack of textbooks and final exam notes. He refreshed the page again.

Still nothing.

Jumping up from the desk, he left the living room and paced toward Chloe’s room. He inched her door open and peeked inside at her. She lay on her back inside her crib, an arm slung up over her head, her elbow bent. A dark curl lay against her forehead. Her eyes were closed, black lashes stark against her creamy complexion. Max sighed. If he didn’t find someone to watch her soon, he had no idea what he was going to do.

Closing the door, he padded back into the living room. He dropped into his desk chair again and hit refresh three times.

Nothing.

He swallowed hard. Rubbing his temples, he stared at the screen. Riley helped him out when she could, but if he couldn’t find someone permanent before the semester ended, he was going to have to drop out of school. He tried to imagine working days in a factory, standing in an assembly line, back aching. His grandfather had worked third shift long past his retirement. Max sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was end up like Grandpa Batista.

Glancing at the time, he frowned. It was past two in the morning, and he had a final exam at nine. Yawning, he closed his laptop, then stood from his desk. As he reached for his phone, the screen lit up, and a new text appeared. Call me if you’re up, Riley had written.

Max frowned. He unlocked the phone and called her.

“Hey,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“You do know it’s two in the morning, Riles?” he teased.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking.

He hesitated, the dirty joke he had been about to spring dying on his lips. “Are you okay?”

“No,” she moaned. “I feel like someone tried to strangle me. My throat is killing me. I can’t swallow, either.”

Max grimaced. “Allergies?”

“Dumbass,” she said. “I think it’s a cold, maybe strep.” She sighed. “So I’m not gonna be able to watch Chloe in the morning.”

Max’s stomach clenched. “I have a final,” he said.

“Jeez,” Riley said. “I’m sorry that I don’t feel good.”

Guilt swept through him. He swallowed hard. “Sorry, Rie. Can I get you anything?”

She sighed again. “No. I’m gonna go to bed now.” Without another word, she hung up.

Max lowered his phone and stared at the screen as it went dark. With no one to watch Chloe, he would have to stay home—and miss his exam. Sucking in a deep breath, he ran his hands through his hair. If he dodged the exam, his GPA probably wouldn’t be affected too much, but he would definitely have to repeat the course. Professor Lee had made it clear—in bold letters on the syllabus—that the midterm and final counted for 75 percent of their total grade. Nausea curled into his stomach, and he leaned over, resting his cheek on the cool wood of the desk.

Even worse, he was supposed to work in the afternoon. He couldn’t afford to miss work, especially not with his first month of rent due so soon. He wished his parents could be normal, reasonable people. He wondered what kind of mother and father kicked their son and granddaughter out. If his mother had asked him to contribute toward groceries or even rent, he would have been more than happy to. It wasn’t fair.

Slowly, he lifted his head from the desk. If he emailed his professor right away, and said he was sick, he would probably be able to make up the exam. He could pretend that he was the one with strep or whatever. Maybe he could even email his boss at the music store with the same excuse. He had never missed a class or a day of work. That had to count for something.

Turning his computer back on, he slowly exhaled. Everything would be okay. Surely Riley would be feeling better by the next day, when she was supposed to watch Chloe for him while he took another final.

As he started typing the first email, another text came in on his phone.

I’m gonna have to cancel for Tuesday, too. I forgot I have to work.

Clenching his phone in his hand, Max curled his lip. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. He wondered how Riley could possibly have forgotten she had to work. Maybe she was mad at him for being so insensitive about her being sick. He sighed. Girls were so complicated—even Riley, who he had known for years.

Massaging his temples, he breathed in deeply. At least he had a good excuse for missing two days in a row. He could just pretend that he was still sick.

Still, he surmised, faking sick wouldn’t get him very far for very long. He couldn’t afford to miss work, and he definitely couldn’t flunk out of school. Something had to give—and soon.


Single dad Max isn’t looking for love—or so he thinks.

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Chapter 1 · Chapter 2 · Chapter 3 · Chapter 4 · Chapter 5

The Nanny with the Skull Tattoos: Chapter 4

Sunlight filtered in through the open blinds. Outside, the street was cold and quiet. No snow covered the ground, but the chill in the air promised more to come. Max paced the living room. Chloe watched from her spot on the floor, a toy clutched in her hand. He checked the time again. Savannah would arrive at any moment. He turned away from his desk and padded toward the windows, eyes scanning the street outside for any sign of her car. He had no idea whether she would be arriving with a rental truck or if she was coming with as little as he had moved in with.

He wished he could have cleaned up a bit more. He still didn’t have any cleaning supplies, and no vacuum. The place had seemed all right when he moved in, but now that a woman other than Riley was coming over, he felt as if every speck of dust and dirt stood out.

Running his hands through his hair, he turned and started yet another circuit of the room. A few days after their trial run at the grocery store, Savannah had watched Chloe for a few hours while he picked up an extra shift. When Max got home, Chloe was sitting next to Savannah on the couch, listening intently while Savannah read her a story. His lips lifted at the memory.

As he neared his desk, his phone vibrated. Quickening his pace, he snatched the phone up, pressing the answer button without even looking at the screen.

“Hey,” he said, heart knocking in his throat. He struggled to keep his voice calm. “Did you get lost?”

Riley snorted. “I’m not lost, you dipshit.”

Max’s jaw clenched. “I thought you were Savannah,” he said.

“Your Craigslist nanny?” Riley laughed. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Knock it off,” he told her, perching on his desk chair. He turned toward the window. A dark car rolled by, but didn’t slow. “She seems really nice.”

“I still can’t believe you’re doing this,” Riley said. “Have you lost your mind?”

Max sighed. “Hey, you could have moved in. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Um, I don’t know,” Riley said. “Put her in day care, like every other modern parent. Who the hell lets a stranger move in and take care of their kid? What is this, The Sound of Music?”

“Chloe really likes her,” he said, glancing down at his daughter. “She’s seen Savannah more times this week than her own mother has seen her in her lifetime.” He looked out the window again. A delivery truck rumbled down the street. He tore his gaze away from the window, and wiped sweaty palms on his jeans.

“Well, duh,” Riley said. “Everyone sees Chloe more than Nikki does. Speaking of your track record, don’t you think Chloe’s a little young for this?”

Max frowned. “What are you getting at, Riley?”

“Come on, Max. I’m not stupid. Why else would you hire a female nanny and have her move in?”

Clenching his jaw, Max stood from his seat. “It’s not like that.”

“And what kind of girl moves in with a strange guy?” Riley continued. “Didn’t you say she has a bunch of skull tattoos? Seems kinda weird to me.”

Knuckles rapped gently at the door. Max’s eyes flicked to the window. Savannah’s BMW sat out front. His eyes widened. “I’ve gotta go, Riley,” he said.

She snorted. “Why, is she there?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “Give it a rest.”

“Max, I know you’re in a crappy position, but you should really rethink this. Do you seriously want some strange woman living in your house? You don’t know anything about her.”

The doorbell rang. Chloe pulled herself to her feet, a chubby finger pointing in the direction of the door. “Daddy,” she said.

“What do you want me to do, Riley? My brothers won’t help me. My parents won’t watch her. You won’t move in with me. I have no choice here.” He crossed the room to the door. “I’ll talk to you later,” he said, and hung up before she could say anything else.

As he opened the door, a gust of cool air raced in. Savannah’s scarf blew against her cheek. She carried a single large box, her car keys clutched in one gloved hand. She smiled, her cheeks rosy from the cold.

“You didn’t have to ring the bell. This is your place now, too,” he said, reaching for the box.

“I’ve got it,” she said, tightening her grip around it.

Max ran a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said, moving aside to let her in. She eased past him, and he closed the door. “So, welcome.” He spread his arms. “It’s not much.”

A soft smile danced on Savannah’s full lips. “It’s home,” she said, lifting a shoulder. Her eyes were a deep pool of warm brown, pulling him in.

Clearing his throat, he looked away. Gesturing toward the hall, he said, “Let me show you your room.” He led her down the short hall to a door on the right. Turning the knob, he pushed the door open. A square of sunlight decorated the carpet. Stepping aside to let her in, Max gestured for her to go ahead.

She moved past him, the scent of her perfume tickling his nostrils. She set the box down in a corner. “Thanks,” she said.

“Anything else coming in?” he asked, glancing at the unlabeled box sealed tight with packing tape. Its corners were dented, and a scuff marred one side.

Savannah shook her head. “Just this for now.”

“You don’t have a bed?” he asked. Eyes widening, he lifted a hand. “Not that I’m suggesting we share, or anything,” he said quickly, thinking of what Riley had said.

Savannah lifted an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t think you were,” she said, the corner of her mouth curling. “I’ll get one at some point.”

Despite the cold outside, the back of his neck bristled with sweat. He nodded and stepped out of the room to give her some privacy. “I was thinking about ordering pizza for dinner,” he called over his shoulder. “Do you want any specific topping?”

“Pizza?” she repeated dubiously.

He turned. Savannah stood with a hand on one hip, an eyebrow raised at him. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Why not?”

“You’re gonna feed your baby pizza?” She clucked her tongue. Moving past him, she padded toward the kitchen. He found her stooped in front of his refrigerator, the door propped open by one leg. She slid items around, mumbling to herself.

Max held up a finger, then dropped his arm to his side. Maybe Riley was right. He didn’t know anything about Savannah. She had moved in without asking any questions, and she hadn’t brought any furniture with her. “Yeah, so, listen,” he began.

She backed out of the refrigerator, balancing a stack of food. Max saw a package of chicken, American cheese squares, and the gallon of milk. Savannah carried everything to the counter and set it down. Digging a hand into her pocket, she pulled out a twenty dollar bill. Her lips moved, and her voice tumbled out, but he didn’t understand a word that she said.

He squinted at her and rubbed his ears, wondering if he had somehow hit his head. “What?”

Savannah blinked at him. “You don’t speak Spanish?” Both of her hands were planted firmly on her hips. She frowned, but the dimples in her cheeks were still visible.

“No,” Max said. “Why would I?”

She smacked her forehead lightly and fired off something that sounded like a cross between admonishment and pity. Pacing back and forth, the words continued to spill from her mouth. Max had no idea what she said, but it was starting to look like Riley might be right.

“Are you okay?” he asked, glancing at the entryway to the kitchen. Chloe still played in the living room.

Savannah rolled her eyes. “Are you kidding me? Isn’t your last name Batista?”

“Yeah. So?” He crossed his arms.

“And you don’t speak Spanish?” She threw her hands up in the air. “How can that be?”

Max rubbed the back of his neck and shifted. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just never learned.”

“Your parents didn’t speak Spanish to you?” She put her hands on her hips again, frowning at him.

“No,” he said slowly. “Why would they have?”

Savannah scowled. “Seriously?” She pointed a finger at him. “Where is your family from?”

Max raised an eyebrow at her. “Waterbury,” he said.

“No, ding dong. Where are they from? Like, where did your grandparents come from?” She leaned against the counter, her arms crossed. Dark, silky black hair hung over her shoulders.

He licked his lips, trying to think. All four of his grandparents had passed away years earlier. He didn’t really know much about them. He had never thought about it very much before. The last real memory he had of them was going to church on Christmas. It had happened long before Chloe was born, before he had even started high school. “New York, I think,” he said finally.

“All of them came from New York?” Savannah asked, an eyebrow raised. She rolled her eyes. “They just appeared there one day, right?”

“No,” he said, crossing his own arms. “They died when I was a kid. What does that have to do with anything?”

She blew her long bangs into the air, making a motorcycle sound with her lips. Muttering something under her breath, she shook her head. “Where did they live before they came to the States?”

Max frowned at her. “Puerto Rico,” he said with a shrug.

“So,” she said, taking a step toward him. “You’re Puerto Rican, and you don’t even speak Spanish?”

Glancing at the door again, he took a step back. “Nope,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” she said again, throwing her hands up. She took another step toward him. “You never even wanted to learn?”

“Jeez,” he said, holding his hands up. “It’s not that big a deal.”

Her large brown eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open. Then, she erupted. “Are you serious?” Lapsing into Spanish, she fired off a string of what he could only assume were curses. Instead of being terrified, like he probably should have been, though, he felt slightly turned on.

He grinned.

“Why are you smiling at me?” she snapped.

“Because,” he said. “You’re kind of cute when you’re cussing me out in Spanish.”

Howling in frustration, she stomped past him, the twenty dollar bill still clutched in her hand. He watched as she stormed through the living room. A moment later, the door slammed behind her.

Blinking, he stared after her. He hoped that she was coming back. Maybe that was crazy. He should probably be calling the police, or at least calling his parents to see what they thought he should do. “Screw that,” he told the empty kitchen. The last person he was going to call was his mother. Leaving the kitchen, he trotted into the living room. Chloe stood against the window, staring into the street.

“Na Na,” she said, turning to Max and pointing out the window.

He scooped her up and smoothed her hair. “She’ll be back.” He carried her to the couch. The scent of Savannah’s perfume lingered in the room. He hoped that she wore it every day. Shaking his head at himself, he cuddled Chloe to his chest. The last thing he needed to be worrying about was a woman. Savannah was his roommate and Chloe’s nanny. He needed to remember that and to keep things professional. Planting a kiss on Chloe’s forehead, he watched as a smile broke out across his daughter’s face.

He glanced at the window. “Did you see Savannah?” he asked the little girl. She shook her head. Max shrugged. Sometimes, little kids were just weird. Then, as the scent of rotten eggs hit his nostrils, he gagged. Pulling Chloe away from his chest, he lay her down on the couch. He ran into her room to retrieve wipes and diapers, his daydream broken.

Just as he finished changing Chloe, the front door opened. Savannah stepped inside, cold air swirling in after her. She clutched two plastic bags in her hands. A grin broke out across her face. Max lifted an eyebrow at her.

“What’s all that?” he asked.

“Dinner,” she replied, moving inside. She closed the door behind her and padded back into the kitchen.

Max remained on the floor next to Chloe, her dirty diaper rolled up into a football-shaped wad. Climbing to his feet, he held the diaper out in front of him. He walked into the kitchen after Savannah. He tossed the diaper into the empty box serving as a garbage and watched as she danced around the kitchen. Her coat sat in a heap on the floor. She pulled a knife from the drawer. Turning one of the plastic bags upside down, she poured out a package of shredded cheddar, a tomato, onion, green and yellow peppers, and what looked like a jalapeño.

“What are you making?” he asked, as she began dicing the tomato.

“Chicken enchiladas Suiza,” she replied. The blade in her hands blurred as she sliced faster. Max watched, eyes wide in awe. He had never seen anyone cut something so fast before, outside of a Food Network show.

“What’s that?” he asked.

Savannah froze, the knife mid slice. “You’ve never had enchiladas?”

He shook his head.

She put her free hand on her hip. “Have you at least had a taco?”

“Of course,” he said. “We always had to buy like four of the kits. My mom said my brothers were like locusts.”

Savannah paled. She sagged against the counter, the knife clattering into the sink. “Taco kits?” she repeated weakly.

“Yeah,” Max said. “The ones that come with the shells and the sauce? You just have to buy the meat and cheese.”

Ay, Dios mio,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she pulled her long hair into a bun on top of her head. Max watched as the light from the ceiling shone off her hair. “You sit back, and let me handle this.”

Shrugging, Max leaned against the wall opposite her. She got back to work, cubing the rest of the vegetables. “Where did you get all this stuff, anyway?” he asked as she turned the stove on low.

Muttering something in Spanish under her breath, she shook her head at him. “There’s a bodega right across the street. Are you blind?”

He blushed, and folded his arms across his chest. “Isn’t that just like, chips and candy?”

“No, dude, they have a whole market in there. Are you an alien?” She pushed up the sleeves of her shirt, revealing the tattoos on her arm. The skulls danced across her skin as her muscles flexed. Max stared. Rolling her eyes, Savannah turned away from him. She drizzled oil into the pan.

“How’d you learn to cook?” he asked. He had assumed she was around the same age as him, yet she seemed to know so much more.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack,” she said, tossing the diced onions into the pan.

“It’s just a question,” he muttered, turning away. All girls were weird and prone to outbursts, he reminded himself. He made his way into the living room where Chloe lay on her stomach, kicking her little legs into the air. She clutched her Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figures and dragged them across the carpet. Their feet made little lines in the fibers.

“Wanna draw, Chloe?” he asked her. She rolled onto her back, her face breaking out into a smile at the sight of him. At least one of the women in his house was happy to have him around. He crossed the room and pulled open one of the desk drawers, taking out paper and crayons. Then he joined Chloe on the floor, sprawling on his stomach in the same position she had been in.

With paper fanned out in front of them, he poured the crayons out. “What do you want me to draw?” he asked his daughter.

“Turtles,” she said in a singsong voice. He grabbed a green crayon and got to work.

The minutes slipped by. Before he knew it, the sky outside was darkening. Green and purple circles that vaguely resembled turtles dotted the paper, with Vs acting as birds, and blue scribbles across the sky. Chloe beamed at him and tapped his turtles with a finger.

“Make some dinosaurs,” she said.

“Sorry, kid,” Max said, putting down the purple crayon. “That’s as far as Daddy’s drawing skills go.”

“I can draw you a dinosaur,” Savannah said from behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder. She stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall. Chloe clapped her hands. Savannah lay down next to Chloe and picked up a gray crayon. Winking at Max, she sketched out the outline of a four-legged dinosaur with a long neck. She held the crayon lightly, layering in shapes slowly. Using pink, she began shading the dinosaur in.

Max watched her draw, entranced. The scent of tomatoes and spices floated to him from the kitchen, and his stomach growled. His eyes remained glued to the paper, watching as Savannah used a lime green crayon to add more detail. Slowly, the dinosaur came to life.

“That’s the mommy dinosaur,” Chloe said. “Where’s the baby?”

Savannah glanced at Max. Their eyes met, and she smiled, her dimples showing. Then she ducked her head and returned to the page, her hand moving back and forth as she added a smaller dinosaur. Chloe watched her every move, her chin tucked into her hands, her eyes wide and round.

Max’s heart pounded in his chest. He swallowed hard. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He needed to remember that Savannah was technically his employee. It was her job to be good with his daughter. Plus, she was definitely weird, and at least slightly crazy.

Savannah put the crayon down, revealing a mother dinosaur with her baby. Chloe’s fingers traced the drawing, a smile breaking out across her face.

“You like it?” Savannah asked.

Chloe nodded.

“Cool,” Max said. “Tell Savannah thank you.”

“Thank you, Na Na,” Chloe said.

“You’re welcome.” Savannah lifted herself from the floor. “Dinner’s ready. Come eat.” She floated into the kitchen as lithe as a dancer. Chloe followed her, as if in a trance. Max climbed to his feet and trailed after them, his heart still doing flip-flops in his chest.

As he entered the kitchen, the scent of hot, spicy cheese grew stronger. His mouth filled with saliva. Savannah strapped Chloe into her high chair, and slid a plate of cooled chicken on the tray in front of her. Then she gestured for Max to sit.

Feeling as if his head had disconnected from his body, he sat down, too. Savannah put down a plate of enchiladas in front of him. Steaming white sauce covered cheesy chicken rolled in a soft tortilla. A pile of orange rice and red beans encircled the enchiladas.

“Wow,” he breathed, picking up his fork. “This smells great.”

“I hope it tastes good,” Savannah said. “I spent my last twenty bucks on this.” She grinned and motioned for him to take a bite.

He shoved a forkful of rice into his mouth, the flavor exploding in a shower of salt and spice and sweet. The lids of his eyes lowered, and he smiled while chewing. Warmth shot through him, and the floaty feeling intensified. “This is so, so good,” he murmured.

He opened his eyes. Savannah’s eyes were locked on his. Hers were large and luminous, a smile illuminating from within them. He swallowed hard. Lowering his gaze, he took a bite of enchilada. Ducking his head down in an effort to not look like a total creeper, he watched as she left the table and made herself a plate. She sat down across from him. Coughing, he put his fork down.

“Are you all right?” she asked, an eyebrow raised at him.

He nodded and darted to the sink. Turning it on, he coughed into the stainless steel. Hoping that he wouldn’t throw up or do anything else embarrassing, he put his face under the stream of water. He took tiny sips, forcing down the food stuck in his throat. He splashed water onto his burning face. Shutting the water off, he turned from the sink, wiping his hands on his jeans. “How’s your chicken?” he asked Chloe, trying to sound nonchalant. His hoarse voice betrayed him, though. He sighed inwardly. He was never going to be cool enough to impress Savannah. Looking down, he ran a hand through his hair. What she thought about him shouldn’t matter, anyway. He had hired her to help take care of Chloe, not so that he could date her.

His daughter lifted her hands into the air. “Yummy!” she exclaimed.

Savannah’s lips curled into a smile.

Ears burning, Max sat down again. Lifting his fork, he forced himself to eat slower. Almost choking once was enough.

“You really never ate this before?” she asked, seemingly oblivious to his struggle.

He shook his head. “My mom’s allergic to cooking,” he said, taking another bite of rice.

Savannah shook her head sadly. “A Puerto Rican woman who can’t cook? Now I’ve heard everything.” She tossed her silky black hair over her shoulder. Max watched as the strands caught the light. His fingers twitched with the urge to run his fingers through her hair. “And no one speaks Spanish in your house?” she asked, bringing him back.

“Not that I know of,” he said with a shrug. He cut another bite of enchilada. “This is so, so good. Who taught you how to cook?”

“My mother and grandmother,” she said, studying him. “So, how is Chloe supposed to learn anything about her heritage?”

Max frowned. “Her heritage? She loves cheeseburgers. You just have to cut up the burger, no bun.” He shoveled more rice into his mouth.

“Not her American heritage, crazypants. Puerto Rican heritage.” Savannah reached across the table and touched his hand. He jumped, the spot where her fingers met his skin crackling. “We’re all American citizens, but there’s more to us.”

Crinkling his eyebrows at her, Max pulled his hand out of her reach. His heart thundered in his chest. He forced himself to breathe slowly.

“Don’t you wanna know about where you come from?” Savannah asked.

He lifted one shoulder. “I was born here, in Waterbury.”

“You’re still boricua,” she said.

“Do what now?” He set his fork down.

Her shoulders slumped. She pushed away her plate. “You’re Puerto Rican. Don’t you want to at least learn how to speak Spanish?”

Max snorted. “Everyone speaks English. What’s the point?”

“The point,” she said, “is to carry on your heritage. To pass on your culture to your daughter.”

“I didn’t realize we were gonna have a history lesson tonight.” He sighed and stood, pushing his chair back.

“You’re full?” she asked, pointing a slim finger at his plate, still piled with food.

“I want to start reading for next semester, get ahead of the game,” he said, moving away from the table. “Are you okay to watch Chloe?”

Savannah stiffened, her eyes turning down at the corners. “Of course,” she said, a smile quickly breaking out across her face. Max could see the hurt in her eyes, though. He left the kitchen, his own shoulders tight. She was too nosy for her own good, he surmised as he sat down at his desk. He reached for his textbook for his Best Practices in Classroom Management course and flipped it open.

He had never been a great student, compared to his brothers. Every test drained him of energy. It would be a miracle if he graduated and was able to get certified for teaching, he mused. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on the words lining the page, but his mind raced in fury.

Gritting his teeth, he rubbed his temples with his fingers, his head pounding. Savannah had no right to interrogate him about his personal life. He had hired her to help with his daughter, not lecture him on things that had nothing to do with him. The only way he was going to do well in life was if he studied hard and got out of Waterbury.

He dragged his eyes back to the textbook, and began reading, forcing thoughts of Savannah out of his mind.


Single dad Max isn’t looking for love—or so he thinks.

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Chapter 1 · Chapter 2 · Chapter 3 · Chapter 4 · Chapter 5

Advocating for Your Chronic Pain Illness

via Unsplash

Last Thursday, I was not in a good place. I felt utterly mortified, wavering between defeat and anger. I knew that I needed to find another primary care provider, but the way my APRN said “If you see another doctor or get another prescription, I’ll get another letter and I won’t prescribe the Tramadol anymore” made me feel like if I transferred to another practice, I’d still just end up looking bad. I hadn’t actually done anything wrong, but I felt like I had, and I felt like I didn’t have any other choice.

Her words kept replaying in my head: “I’ll get another letter,” as if she was trying to threaten me. Had she really been concerned about my being dependent on painkillers, she would have asked me questions about my use, trying to get to the bottom of her concerns and helping her patient. But healthcare practitioners are not trained in substance abuse, save for a small segment. Nor are they trained in pain management. So, when faced with chronic pain patients like me or patients who are struggling with substance abuse, they don’t know what to do with us. And when they’re prejudiced by ageism, sexism, and ableism like my APRN—who made up her mind about me the very moment she saw my youthful, feminine face—they can’t be bothered at all.

And hey, maybe she really does mean well, but I have a hard time believing it when she consistently dismisses all of my concerns during our appointments, yet is attentive, involved, and jumps into action whenever she sees my husband. I’ve sat in on his appointments. I’ve seen the differences in treatment with my own eyes. The other day, while checking out, the elderly woman behind me praised the same APRN who’d just all but flat out accused me of lying. At this point, I can only conclude that she treats me the way she does because of how I look: like an able-bodied teen girl.

So yes, I call it like I see it: ageism, sexism, and ableism. And I’m so sick of it, I could breathe fire.

When my rheumatologist told me, during our first appointment, that I can’t possibly have an autoimmune disease and that I should be grateful it’s “only” Fibromyalgia, I was hurt and furious. I walked out of the office barely holding back tears, and spent the morning intermittently crying and smoking cigarettes. Then, the next morning with my best friend by my side, I called the office to complain. I ended up having a very productive phone conversation with him, and truly felt that he wasn’t bullshitting me. He’d realized he’d been wrong to judge me so quickly, and was willing to help me get my autoimmune disease figured out and under control.

I didn’t feel as if I could have such a productive conversation with my APRN. She has been dismissive of me since my first appointment with her, and even when I repeat my questions or point out facts, she completely ignores me. Whereas, with my rheumatologist, even when he disagreed that I have an autoimmune disease, he was still willing to listen, to take the time to answer my questions. I’ve never gotten that impression from my APRN.

Besides, I needed to state facts and lay things out, which would take longer than a five-minute conversation with the front end staff. They’re very busy, and likely wouldn’t have time to sit on the phone with me while I rattle off dates and details, nor could I be sure that the message would be relayed properly. I also felt super anxious, and wasn’t sure that I could speak without getting upset all over again.

I felt stuck. Even if I transferred to another doctor in the same health network, I would just look like the drug shopping liar she accused me of being. I wasn’t sure that the next doctor would be willing to refill my prescription and, even though at this point the Plaquenil is starting to work, I do still need pain relief. For my own peace of mind, I also need to know that, should the pain get bad again, I can get the medicine I need in order to get through my days and nights.

“I’ll get another letter,” she’d told me. While venting to Sandy, it dawned on me: she would get another letter, because I was going to send one to her.

Even though I wrote it in the security of my own home, I felt my anxiety mounting with each word. As patients, we’re conditioned to go with whatever the doctor tells us because they have the medical degree, not us. As chronic pain patients, we’re even more inclined to roll with it because we’re grateful to be treated at all—especially women, who are often stigmatized as being dramatic or drug-seeking. Autoimmune diseases are documented as being difficult to diagnose and treat; what works for one patient often won’t work for another with the exact same condition, because every person’s immune system is different. When you’re fighting an autoimmune disease, you’re fighting your own body, a complex and adaptive machine that scientists and doctors still don’t completely understand. So, when you’re not even very familiar with your own disease, it’s absolutely daunting to stand up to a healthcare practitioner and say “You’re wrong”—even when they are very clearly wrong, as my APRN was.

In my three-page letter, I stated dates that I’d been seen along with the unprofessional things that she’s said to me. I explained that I had come to her first, that because she’d brushed me off, I’d had no choice but to go to the ER when it hadn’t improved a week later. I ended my letter invoking my right as a patient to see the office MD from here on out.

After I put my letter in the mailbox, my anxiety only increased and I kept questioning myself, telling myself that I’d made a mistake, that I should just rip it up and deal with things the way they were. I always feel bad for standing up for myself. Maybe, if I’d just outright said to her “It’s not okay for you to joke about my age and condition” from the very beginning, or “I would like to try Flexeril” when she brushed off my Advil questions, it wouldn’t have come to me laying it all out in a three-page letter.

Women are conditioned to believe that if we speak up for ourselves, we’re inconveniencing someone. We’re accused of complaining, of being a bitch. But I had to advocate for myself and my healthcare, because if I don’t, no one else will.

So, I mailed out my letter. Despite my damned phone anxiety, I plan on calling in a few days to follow up and make sure that they got it. Then I’ll make sure my next appointment is with the MD who replaced my retired doctor, and hopefully s/he will be much more attentive, compassionate, and knowledgeable. I’ve seen dozens of doctors over the last decade, and so few of them are. It’s a damned shame, because it impedes healthcare and also ruins patients’ faith in doctors. I know it sure as hell has killed mine.

I’m getting better at advocating for myself, though. Even if I’m too shocked to defend myself in person, I can always call later when my anxiety calms, or write a letter when my anger fades. Speaking of, I also wrote a letter of complaint to the hospital about the way the ER attending and some of the staff treated me. In the past year, since getting my voice back, I’ve become less afraid to speak up for myself and others. It’s never easy, but it’s always worth it.

I am worth it.

Always a Liar

via Unsplash

At the end of December, as my joint pain started to improve, I started having debilitating neck and lower back pain. I knew it wasn’t my UCTD, but still tried to let the Prednisone and Tramadol take care of it. They didn’t touch it. I couldn’t sleep or work, so I mentioned it to the APRN I see at my primary doctor’s office during my followup with her for my Tramadol refill.

I told her that I’d been taking Advil for it, which helped a little, but I wasn’t sure how much I could safely take. Her response? “Just don’t take too much.”

“Yes, but… how much is too much?”

“Just don’t take too much. The Prednisone will help it,” she insisted.

“I’ve been on Prednisone for a month. This is a new issue.”

“The Prednisone will help it.”

A week later, my joint pain continued to improve while my neck and lower back continued to be debilitatingly painful. Since the APRN had refused to offer me any real advice or treatment, and I wouldn’t be seeing my rheumatologist for another two weeks, I tried ice, heat, more Advil, rest. It didn’t improve. On a Wednesday night, the pain got so bad I couldn’t even focus on the TV show that I was trying to watch.

I decided to go to the emergency room—which apparently was a mistake.

This morning, during my followup with my APRN for my monthly Tramadol refill, she asked if I’m seeing any other doctors. Confused, I said, “Just my rheumatologist,” which she should’ve already known.

“Are you getting any other prescriptions?” she asked.

Still very confused, I replied with my usual list: Prednisone, Plaquenil and, recently, Flexeril from my rheumatologist (I’ll get to that in a moment).

“You got a narcotic,” she said.

I’d honestly forgotten about the ER visit. During my followup with my rheumatologist, I told him how the APRN had brushed me off, how the ER had flat out asked me what I wanted them to do for me, and asked him about Flexeril. My rheumatologist wrote me a prescription for it and, within less than two weeks, my neck and lower back were back to normal.

I told the APRN that yes, I’d been to the ER, and yes, they’d prescribed me Vicodin, which I didn’t want.

“Then why did you fill it?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but have I done something wrong? If you remember, I came in here to see you and asked you about my neck and back, and you just told me not to take too much Advil. So yes, I went to the ER.”

I did what I had to do so that I could get some relief.

As usual, she brushed me off, speaking as if I hadn’t said anything. She again started lecturing me, saying that I can’t take Tramadol and Vicodin together.

“I didn’t,” I said, “and the ER doctor knew my current medications and said that it was okay.” I also told her that my rheumatologist prescribed me Flexeril and that worked, that it was all I’d wanted all along.

She then lectured me about dependence on Tramadol, how I can’t go to the ER, and can’t get anymore prescriptions, or she won’t refill Tramadol for me anymore.

“I’ve been taking Tramadol for my arthritis for years,” I told her, “and I’ve never had any trouble with it, nor do I have any history of substance abuse.”

Ignoring that, she started talking to me about Tylenol and Advil. Even though she could have looked in my chart to see all of the various medicines and treatments I’ve tried over the past decade, I explained to her again that OTC pain relievers and NSAIDs don’t help. She then started talking about a new NSAID with an antacid, and how my insurance doesn’t cover it, but next time I’m going to try it.

She also interrogated me about why I waited so long to come in for a refill. I called a week and a half ago for an appointment and today was the earliest they could give me. How is that my fault?

It seemed like she wants to take me off Tramadol, which has long been a happy medium for me. It doesn’t completely take away my joint pain, but it helps enough so that I can function (unless I’m in a flareup). I’ve tried multiple OTC and prescription NSAIDs over the years, all of which she could see in my chart. None of them have worked, which is why I started taking Tramadol.

I was really confused and once again felt like she wasn’t listening to me. Since I haven’t slept these past couple of nights, I just didn’t have it in me to explain once again everything she already knows, things that we’ve already discussed multiple times.

On my way out, I went the wrong way. I’ve been in so many doctors’ offices lately, my exhausted pea brain is directionally challenged. She condescendingly pointed me in the right direction, as if I wasn’t already mortified enough. I stopped at the front desk to make my followup appointment for next month, rather than calling in to schedule it later. Before I left, the receptionist stopped me and asked me to sign a paper.

Again confused, I sat down and read through the three-page document—an agreement about narcotics, with a long list of restrictions. I can’t even fill my prescription at a different pharmacy. What happens if we were to move, or if I wanted to fill it at Stop & Shop while I get groceries?

I know all of this is coming from the new regulations—and of course lawmakers didn’t consider chronic illness patients—but her attitude toward me has always been dismissive. Today I just felt completely dehumanized; she treated me like a liar, like a criminal.

Yet every time my husband has seen her and expressed his health issues and concerns, she’s been attentive and quick to work out a treatment plan for him.

Every

single

time.

I’m glad Mike’s finally getting things taken care of, but previously he hadn’t been to a doctor in over 15 years. I have a long history of having an autoimmune disease and documentation of seeing specialists and trying different treatments. When I see her, my concerns are dismissed; she flat out told me that I have “too much going on,” so she doesn’t “want to touch me.” Yet Mike has even more health issues than I do, and she told him that she would take care of everything.

I’m tired of being treated like a liar and a criminal. I’m tired of being dehumanized, having my pain and concerns dismissed over and over. I’m tired of sexism, ableism, and ageism in the healthcare field. I’m tired of playing this game.

I don’t have it in me anymore. I really, really don’t.

The worst part is, I can’t even just switch doctors, try to find someone who will listen to me and actually read my chart. The APRN told me that she got a letter saying that I’d filled a prescription for Vicodin, and told me that if I see any other doctors or get any other prescriptions, she’ll get another letter.

Which means that, if I change doctors, it’ll just look bad on my end; I’ll just look like I actually am drug-seeking.

No matter what I do, no matter how pro-active I am in my health, I’ll always just be a liar.

The Weight of Words

via Unsplash

Words and the way we use them are immeasurably important. The adage “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me” never rang true for me. Growing up, I was a damned near constant target of bullying. Nothing has had a deeper effect on me than the words that permeated through my soul.

When you hear something often enough, it chips away at you. No matter how hard you try to just shrug it off, you begin to believe it.

Words are my art medium, so I feel an even stronger responsibility for their use. This is why I was appalled to see this:

Not because I didn’t know that “spook” was a slur, but because an entire publishing team didn’t know—or didn’t care. There aren’t nearly enough people of color in publishing, nor are there nearly enough white people in publishing who actually speak up or, at the least, listen to their colleagues.

It’s true that words often change over time or hold multiple meanings, but that’s never an excuse for using them. As writers and publishers, we have a responsibility to choose and use words wisely. As white people living in a world that has always been diverse and always will be, we have a responsibility to remember the weight of racial slurs, to teach each other and our children their meaning and why it’s harmful to use them.

I’m white, so I can’t know what it’s like to have toxic words lobbed at me, stripping me of my humanity because of my skin color, but I do know what it’s like to be pelted with poison

again

and again

and again

until it seeped into my skin and became a part of me. I’m a full-grown woman but to this day I carry certain negative beliefs about myself because I heard them said to me so often. The difference is, the words that hurt me aren’t intertwined with my daily life, embedded in society. I don’t have to worry about whether a book that I pick up to enjoy will remind me that I’m viewed as other and wrong in the world that I live in.

No one should have to worry about that.

Yes, “spook” also means “spy” in the U.K., but here in the U.S. it’s also a derogatory description of black people. Its etymology varies depending on the source, and the Merriam-Webster doesn’t even list it as a slur. A huge part of progress is remembrance; here in the States, we have a bad habit of erasing important things from our collective memory, especially when it makes white people uncomfortable.

The things that we don’t talk about always come back to hurt us as a collective, doing the most damage to people of color. Ignorance enables oppression.

This is why we white people need to remember the weight of our words, to teach our children and each other how septic they can be. Pretending they no longer exist enables an entire publishing team—linguistic professionals!—to overlook an eviscerating racial slur.

Just like it wasn’t my responsibility to explain to my abusers why their words were harmful, it is not the responsibility of people of color to educate white people about slurs.

As a nation, we must remember them and confront the pain they cause head on.

And dammit, we need more people of color in publishing. We also need more white people in publishing who are willing to challenge these things right alongside them.

Treat Yourself to 10 Romance Ebooks for $0.99 Each!

I don’t know about you, but here in Connecticut, it’s been cold and windy, and Mother Nature keeps dumping snow on us. This Valentine’s Day, I’m collaborating with nine other authors in an exciting $0.99 sale. Diving Into Him (South of Forever, Book 1) is only $0.99 through February 18th.

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It Can’t Rain All the Time

via GIPHY

It’s hard to believe that it’s only been 10 days since Mike’s surgery; ever since then, it’s been pouring on us. I could sit here and list every single thing that’s gone wrong since, but 1) it wouldn’t really be productive and 2) ain’t nobody got time for that.

I’ve got articles to write, 15-20K to reach for SOF4, and a nice hot shower to take.

These past 10 days have been very difficult and stressful—my blood pressure was 140/92 when I checked it Wednesday night, and that was hours after I blacked out, so I’m guessing it was much higher—but Mike and I are fucking scrappy. We’ve rallied so many times these past couple weeks, and somehow we’re still cracking jokes and cracking each other up.

10 years together, and we just keep getting stronger.

We also have fantastic family and friends who have helped us in so many ways, more than I could ever count or repay. Even simple things like late-night face time with my best friend, sitting outside just talking. I told my mom last night that, while I was bailing out my tub earlier, I had a moment where I was thinking Where are the grownups? and then realized Shit—I’m the grownup! We laughed way too hard because she told me she still has moments like that.

Adulting is hard, but no one actually knows what they’re doing. Which, if you want to be cynical, could mean that we’re all just a bunch of overgrown and unsupervised kids, but I’m just grateful that I’m not the only one who doesn’t always have the answers.

It’s only February and I’ve already changed my business plan and production schedule several times to roll with life’s punches. At this point, I’ve decided to just focus on writing for now.

via GIPHY

It kind of sucks, because I wanted 2017 to be a publishing year for me, releasing something new every quarter or even every two months. Since my blood pressure is high, though, I need to clear my plate as much as possible. Right now I have no release dates in mind, but I’ll let you know as soon as I know when SOF4 will come out. In the meantime, check out this teaser. It’s dead sexy.

For the time being, I’m buckling down and focusing on just writing and taking care of everything in my immediate world. To keep up with me, subscribe to my newsletter.

☔️

On the Wings of Hope (Plaquenil, 2 Months)

via Unsplash

It’s been quite a while since I checked in here with a full health update. To recap, I started Plaquenil on December 1st, 2016, along with Prednisone to get the inflammation down and give me some relief while the Plaquenil got working. Aside from a few mood swings and hot flashes, I’ve been doing well on the Prednisone; I’ll take almost anything over flareup-level joint pain, to be honest. Most of the side effects have simmered down, though. In between now and then, I came down with the flu and had some debilitating neck and lower back pain.

Turns out that the neck and back pain are probably stress related, aggravated by new pillows, cold weather, and working at the computer. I asked the APRN about it at my primary doctor’s office and she brushed me off, as usual. When it got really bad—I mean, brought me to tears bad—I went to the ER. They brushed me off too, until they saw my x-rays. Although there was no fracture or anything, the doctor could tell that I was in a lot of pain because of how ramrod straight my neck was. He said they usually see that in people with whiplash; normally, the spine is slightly curved in the neck. He sent me away with Vicodin, which makes me vomit. All I wanted was Flexeril. When I asked him if I could cut the Vicodin pills in half to avoid them irritating my stomach, he actually laughed in my face and told me that I needed to go home and chill out.

Nice, right? But this is nothing new.

A friend and then a relative gave me some Flexeril to get me through, and it worked like magic (as long as I actually relaxed, too*). During my followup with my rheumatologist, I told him that I know it’s not really okay to share prescriptions, but I just wanted to make sure it was okay to take Flexeril with my other medications. He told me it was okay, and suggested I take it at night because it can make me drowsy. He also told me to not drive on it. I don’t remember him saying he was going to write me a prescription for it, but when I got to the pharmacy, it was there.

So few doctors have actually listened to me over the past decade, never mind tried to treat me, that I actually cried in the middle of the pharmacy aisle. I’ve never been so happy to take medicine.

During my appointment, we discussed how I’m doing on Plaquenil. My joint pain is much, much better, and he said this is around the time when Plaquenil starts to work. Since I can’t stay on Prednisone for very long, I need to come off of it. He asked me what I thought about that.

I just want to note how much that means to me, that he includes me in the conversation and treatment plan. I initially wasn’t sure about him, since he seemed to be brushing me off, but ever since our phone conversation, he’s shown me that he really cares. I think a lot of doctors do, but they can sometimes forget what it’s like to be on the other side—the patient’s side.

“Well,” I said, “I’m kind of nervous about coming off the Prednisone, because I don’t want the pain to come back.” I’ll be the first to tell you that my biggest fear is my pain. Not the 5/10 pain, but the 10/10, can’t move, can’t function, feel like I’m dying pain.

He nodded, then explained to me that he isn’t just taking me off of it. We’ll be slowly tapering down, to find the minimum dose that I can stay on while the Plaquenil starts working.

In short: I won’t be just coming off it. The pain won’t be rushing right back in like it has in the past.

I’m now on 7.5mg of Prednisone a day (previously I was on 10mg). My prescription is 5mg pills; I take one and a half every morning. The brain fog struggle is real, because I had to ask him to explain to me three times how I’m supposed to make 7.5mg out of 5mg pills. But he patiently explained each time, never got annoyed with me, and when I apologized for being so slow, he gently told me that his job is to clarify for me.

I really can’t express how wonderful this man is.

A decade of chronic illness and doctor merry-go-round has made me very skeptical about doctors. I’ve been mistreated so many times, it’s my knee-jerk reaction to mistrust them. But I’m glad that I shared my concerns with him and expressed how much I need someone to figure this out with me.

Sometimes, change needs to come from within.

Though I was nervous about tapering down, I’ve been on the lower dose for a week now and I feel great. Plaquenil is doing its job! Don’t get me wrong. I can still aggravate my joints by overdoing it. (I do.) I can still have bad pain days. (I have.) It’s still possible that I can have another flareup. It’s still possible that my Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease is pre-Lupus. I still very much fear my pain.

But it’s also starting to feel possible to get my life back.

For the first time in a decade, I feel hopeful again.


We Need Your Help

I’m feeling better, but I’m still not able to return to the regular workforce. On top of that, my husband recently had surgery that will keep him out of work for three weeks at the minimum, six at the most. He doesn’t have a lot of sick time available and we’re already struggling. We really appreciate any help you can give us.

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*Ha! Considering I’m an indie author and have to work my ass off for every dollar I make, I’m not very good at just resting. Still, the more I stress about money and my production schedule, the more my neck and lower back hurt. I’ve also been stressing about my health insurance and all of the insane things happening in my country, which I’m sure hasn’t helped. I’ve had to actively work at keeping my stress levels down by using coping methods, relaxation techniques, and unplugging. And buckling down to write a new book.