The Nanny Returns excerpt!

Nanny Returns: Chapter Two

“You know me,” he states flatly, taking a half step back from the window.

“Grayer,” I repeat to the teenage incarnation of my last charge.

He swerves out of view, sending me fumbling for the locks. Grabbing a restraining hold of Grace’s collar, I dart outside just in time to hook his belt loops as he tips over the stoop wall and retches onto the garbage cans. Bending my knees to counter his heaving weight in the frigid night air, I randomly note that the heat is the one thing that fully functions in the house looming above us.

“Okay . . . done,” he croaks and I pull him upright, his body loose like a harlequin, emitting a thick aroma of liquor and nicotine. He rakes the sleeve of his pea coat across his face and stumbles back to lean against the closed door, his eyes focusing as Grace growls through the wood.

“You’re taller than me,” is all I can say, realizing this is actually happening.

“You have, like, a pit-bull in there?”

“A golden retriever.”

“I had one . . . I was allergic . . . as a kid . . . had to get rid of it.” His eyes roll back.

“I think you should come inside.” I gesture to the knob. He nods, momentarily righting himself and I awkwardly maneuver around him to open the door. Grace grabs her rope and jumps up to greet us.

“Woo. Hey.” Grayer pats her down, reaching a hand to the banister and swinging himself in a large arc to sit on the bottom step. I re-lock the door and turn to stare at him in the streetlight spilling through the transom’s stained glass.

“Grayer,” I falter, reaching far into my brain for the speech I’d once prepared for this very moment. “I’m so, so—”

“You a witch?” he asks, resting his head against the wall.

“What? No, I—”

“On meth?”

“Okay, I didn’t just show up at your house puking.”

“It’s just . . .” He waves his hand around the decrepit foyer, which Grace takes as an invitation to wag over and lick the remnants of his upheaval off his coat.

“I’m—we’re, my husband and I are renovating.” I cross my arms over Ryan’s sweater. “How did you find me?”

“My mom’s files. Some notes about the Hutchinsons and then, you know, Google.’

I feel an unexpected burst of pride in this demonstration of his smarts—immediately extinguished as he fishes through his pockets to draw out a pack of American Spirits. “No.” Grace backs up, head down. “Sorry, but, no, you can’t smoke inside.”

“This is inside?” He cradles the pack between his hands. “This isn’t, like, the confound-the-mutants anti-chamber and those doors open to a fat pad?”

“No, this is . . . it has a lot of potential.”

“Right.” His eyes drift close.

“Grayer.”

“Yup.”

“Why are you here?”

“To tell you to go fuck yourself.” He inhales in two quick sniffs, eyes still closed.

My stomach twists. “Okay.”

His eyes flutter open, seeking mine in the dim light. “Okay?”

“Yes. I mean, yes, I understand. I—”

“Okay?” He throws his hands out and jerks forward, his elbows landing on his knees. “Great! That’s great! Because, you know, you talked a lot of shit to be someone I have to fucking Google. You wanted to give them the desire to know me, huh? But you walked out like the rest of them. So fuck. You.” He drops his head and splays his fingers across the back of his neck.

“Grayer.” I reach out to him, but he jerks away.

“What,” his voice thickens. Oh my God, he’s crying. I crouch to try and meet his gaze, but his long bangs hang thickly between us. “F***, I’m such a p***.” He burrows his palms into his eyes. “We got back from the country tonight and he’s moved out—for real—gone—and she dug it up for evidence and I just watched it and the thing is, the thing is . . . I don’t even know who you are.” He reaches for his coat pocket and wrestles something black out, the force of its release slapping my cheek. I reel from the sting.

“Christ—sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He drops the object and it clatters to the chipped tile between us. Holding my face with one hand, I pick it up and tilt it in the shaft of colored light to make out the faded ‘Nanny’ written on its label in her controlled script.

The nanny-cam video. She saw it—kept it—

“The things you said . . . and I don’t know . . .” he murmurs and I kneel down to reach my arms around his grown-up frame, pulling him against me. “—I don’t know you.”

“I’m Nanny, Grove, I’m Nanny.” And he slumps into me, passing out.