Page 127 of The Nanny Goal

By the time she gets back, she has busy work in the kitchen that occupies her until my parents appear for dinner.

She puts on a good mask with them, asking them to teach her phrases in Russian, and practicing the vocabulary she’s already learned. And I can’t pretend that I don’t need the space she’s created, too.

I’m still reeling.

But when bedtime for Inessa rolls around, and my parents head downstairs for the night, I’m also glad for the chance to be alone again, and try to repair what I broke earlier.

I lift Inessa into my right arm and press a kiss to her temple. She’s already half asleep, soft and heavy against my shoulder.

“Say goodnight to Emery,” I murmur.

“Night-night, Emmy,” she mumbles, lifting her head just enough to offer a sleepy kiss.

Emery leans in and kisses her back. “Goodnight, baby girl,” she whispers, brushing her fingers down Inessa’s curls.

For just a second, I wrap my free arm around Emery, and I press a kiss to the top of her head.

“I’m sorry,” I say, low.

She nods, but doesn’t look at me.

“I’ll come back to clean up.”

I carry Inessa upstairs, settle her in bed, trying to pretend the night is normal. It isn’t, though. Everything feels unmoored and my thoughts are spinning fast and furious, the panicky drumbeat growing louder again.

She’s leaving.

She was always leaving, but… in the summer. When I could follow her like a lovesick puppy.

Now she has to disappear before the playoffs even begin.

She promised me the playoffs.

But did she?

I browbeat her into agreeing to work for me. And then I seduced her. I didn’t take no for an answer, ever, because it’s unfathomable to me that we aren’t meant to be together again.

She didn’t argue because I wouldn’t hear it.

But behind the scenes, she made a decision to leave.

She’s leaving, she’s leaving, she’s leaving.

It’s been hours, and I’m still not able to think about it without my body wanting to fight, and fight hard.

And downstairs, the steady clatter from the kitchen tells me she’s ignored my instruction that I would clean up

By the time I make it back downstairs, Emery’s even tidied the living room. The toys are stacked. The dishwasher’s humming. The couch looks untouched except for her—sitting there like she’s bracing for impact.

“I would have…” I trail off, then gesture to the spot beside her. “Can I sit?”

She nods.

I lower myself to couch, wanting desperately to stretch my arm out across the back of the cushions, to wrap my hand around her far shoulder and tug her into my side.

She’s leaving.

I don’t pull her into me.

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