Page 11 of Make You Mine

The position will be for four days a week at £22/hour. We’ll finalize your schedule together once you’ve settled in. We’re happy to provide whatever supplies or materials you might need to make your time here smooth and enjoyable.

Thank you again for taking the time to meet with us—and for the Band-Aids! Willow hasn’t stopped talking about her sparkly stars and purple butterflies.

We’ll see you soon!

Warmly,

Amerie & Declan Keating

They chose me.

I stare at the screen in shock for what must be minutes. I reread the email so many times that my eyes sting, tears starting to gather, but I’m not fussed about it.

It’s real. It’s finally real.

I reread it again, from the top.

We’re pleased to offer you the nanny position with our family!

I hug my phone to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut. The sound that escapes my throat is somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

I almost have to question if I’m dreaming. It trulyisthe stuff of dreams. But it’s actually true; in a few days time, I’ll be starting at the Keating’s home.

Scrambling off my bed, I rush across the room to slip on my boots and grab my bag. I’m out the door within seconds, ignoring the slurred protests from Claire. By the time she even thinks about getting up from her lounger, I’ll be long gone.

It’s drizzling out, colder than I expected, but I couldn’t care less. I tug my cardigan tighter and hop on my bike.

The tires splash over puddles as I bike along the winding roads. My calves and thighs ache the steeper the incline, but I don’t ease off. The library shuts in forty minutes, and I’ve still got two towns to get through.

I cycle through patchy streetlights, some flickering dimly, others dead altogether. The countryside closes in. A car swings around the bend behind me, its headlights glaring. It rushes past me, drenching me with a sheet of icy rainwater from a pothole.

I gasp and swerve slightly, momentarily losing control of the bike handles.

But I don’t stop. Not tonight. Not right now.

The library emerges into view, glowing from a distant hilltop. I’m shaking and soaked through as I press down harder on the pedals and push past the pain and discomfort.

There’s no one else out this way.

Just me, the wind, and the rain at this hour in the evening.

I don’t bother with the bike rack.

I fling myself off and let the bike flop into the grass, boots squelching as I dash across. My cardigan clings to me like a second skin, sleeves sodden and heavy. I’m taking two steps at a time as I make my way up and then push open the doors.

The library is dingy and small, a cramped space that’s loaded with bookshelves upon bookshelves and that smells like dust and paper. The ceiling lights flicker ominously, as though in warning they’ll cut out at any second.

Behind the front terminal sits the librarian. Some brunette with gray hairs she doesn’t bother dying who barely looks up from her computer as I enter. Her fingers punch at the keyboard, the clacking noise a loud echo in the otherwise empty library.

I’m not here to browse. I’ve been here enough times to know exactly where it is.

Fiction section. Row eleven where the Ks are located. Fourth shelf from the top.

My fingers trail the spines automatically until they pause—here it is.

I stroke the golden embossed letters almost reverently, then gently slide it out into the palm of my hands.

The sight of her name across the front makes my insides flutter.

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