Page 9 of Where the Blacktop Ends

I slump down on to the couch, allowing myself just a fifteen-minute break to wallow in pity before I start packing for my inevitable trip back to Texas. I pull out my phone and text James, hoping he’ll come commiserate when he’s done with work.

Georgia: That sucked big time.

James: They left?

Georgia: ?? Yeah. Kids cried. I somehow didn’t. But I can feel myself starting to unravel now.

James: I’m still in the city at the office. I can be to you in three hours.

Georgia: Change into something casual. Going to need your help packing.

James: Not the cottage!!!

Georgia: Hurry. I’m sad. ??

I toss my phone onto the couch and stride into the kitchen, grabbing a wine glass. Without a second thought, I fill it to the brim with my favorite $15 box wine—the kind I can only find in Brooklyn. No chance you’d see it in the Hamptons; they’d rather die than sell something this cheap.

I take a big gulp, tasting the familiar tang of the bitter notes as they settle into my stomach and instantly start to feel better.

I’m in my late twenties, unemployed, single, and have no place to live but my parents’ ranch back in Texas.

Everything’s going to be just fine.

New beginnings, and all that shit.

I grab my phone, hook it up to the cottage’s Bluetooth speaker and begin blaring my favorite 90s rock playlist to motivate me to pack up the home that I love.

As I’m working, clearing out kitchen cabinets, tossing things into my luggage or the garbage, I stumble across a small business card that I forgot Mr. Smith had handed me back in June when he first shared about their upcoming move. I unfold it and stare at the phone number scrawled across it—a contact of his, a wealthy political and legal advisor named Troy Marshall.

Mr. Smith had mentioned that Mr. Marshall was eyeing a move out of the political consulting role that he’d worked in for over a decade and into a government-facing job. He’d alsomentioned that he’d recently taken full custody of his two-year-old grandson and was looking for a full-time nanny who could be discreet, given his position within the community. Beyond that, I know nothing about him.

I hold the paper between my fingers, reading over the numbers again.

The idea of leaving New York doesn’t sit right with me. I have no prospects for nanny gigs in Lonestar Junction, and there’s no way I’ll make anywhere near the salary I’ve been earning here. The cost of living in Texas means lower pay, and my parents’ gentle but yet obvious hopes for me—that by now I’d be married and giving them grandbabies—make returning even less appealing.

Yet here I am, staring at an opportunity that could keep me in the city, wondering if Mr. Marshall’s mysterious job offer is worth the leap. I pull out my phone, drafting a text to James to ask him what to do.

Georgia: Have you ever met a Troy Marshall in the city? A political consultant?

But at the last second, I save it to my drafts, deciding not to bother him if he’s still working and lead with my gut. Before I can overthink it, I grab the card my prior boss gave me, mutter “fuck it,” and start dialing the number because I’m not ready to leave. I’m not ready to return to the place where I grew up when I feel like I’ve grown so much in New York. When I feel like I still have so much growing left to do here.

A pleasant voice answers on the first ring. “Diane Lane answering for Troy Marshall. How may I assist you?”

“Hi, um... My name is Georgia Cameron. I was the nanny for the Smith family, who recently moved to Florida. They mentionedMr. Marshall is looking for a full-time nanny for his grandson, and I’m inquiring about the position.”

The words feel awkward coming out of my mouth. Perhaps I should have looked up who Troy Marshall was first but I’m nothing if not spontaneous and aterribleplanner.

There’s a brief pause, the sound of typing in the background. “Yes, Mr. Marshall is indeed still looking for a nanny for his grandson, Liam. He mentioned the Smith’s nanny might call. Please be aware this is an extremely competitive position; one in which Mr. Marshall will demand the utmost discretion. Would you be available to interview tomorrow at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon at the Hamptons Villa Country Club to see if you’re a good fit?”

Tomorrow? That’s fast.

For a moment, I’m stunned by how fast this is all unfolding. The idea of staying in New York long-term should send me into a spiral of panic—but it doesn’t. Instead, a thrill sparks deep in my chest. A challenge. A new opportunity. Maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to leave the cottage behind after all.

“I’ll be there,” I say, unable to hide the smile in my voice.

And I can’t wait to tell James.

Chapter 4 – Georgia

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