If You Give a Single Dad a Nanny: Chapter 21

THE PAST WEEK AND A half have gone by in a blur.

I stayed true to my word and locked myself in my studio to work on my art, only breaking to watch Lola in the mornings and take Waffles on his daily walks. I can’t pinpoint if it was by sheer determination, my recent inspiration, or a combination of both, but I was ecstatic when I finished a day earlier than anticipated.

While riding high on my professional achievement, my personal life is in a dry spell.

The day after our talk in his kitchen, Dylan had a massive setback at work and has been putting in long hours at the office and spending his free time with Lola. I’ve only seen him when he’s running out the door or up to his home office for a conference call.

I considered telling him about my art exhibition, but when he told me he had another last-minute business trip later this week, I decided not to bring it up. He didn’t specify if he was going to New York again, but even if he were, I didn’t mention my show, afraid that he would feel obligated to go. He said his parents are watching Lola while he’s away, so my plans for the weekend never came up.

It’s late afternoon, and I’m rifling through my fridge in search of something to eat. I polished off the last of Dylan’s delicious homemade meals over a week ago, so I settle on a ham and cheese sandwich. I gather all the ingredients and put them on the counter, while I call Gavin. I forgot to give him the exciting news this morning about finishing the collection on time.

“Hello?” he says with hesitance.

“Hey, Gav. Are you with a client? I can call back later.”

“No, now is fine. You’re usually trying to avoid talking to me, so I’m a little nervous to hear why you’re calling me three days before your exhibition. Is now a bad time to remind you that most galleries require artists to send their paintings weeks in advance?”

What I appreciate most about The Artist is their focus on promoting the artist rather than specific pieces of art. This means a collection isn’t unveiled to the public until the night of the show.

“I’m very lucky to work with an exceptional curator who doesn’t stifle my creative process.” It doesn’t hurt to butter him up when he’s in one of his moods.

“Now you’re sweet-talking me, which I don’t usually mind, but it makes me think you have bad news to share.”

“It was touch and go there for a while.” I tuck my phone in the crook of my neck while I lather a piece of bread with mayo and mustard. “Dylan’s nanny quit, so I’ve been watching Lola in the mornings, and I was down with the flu a week and a half ago. Oh, and I forgot to mention that I was in the worst creative slump—”

“Babe, you’re rambling, and I’m going to develop an ulcer if you keep talking.” His voice is panicked. “Hold on, did you say you’ve been nannying for the GQ hottie? How could you keep such a valuable piece of information from me?” Gavin gets easily distracted when gossip is involved.

“Would you rather talk about my next-door neighbor or get an update on the paintings?”

While I wait for his reply, I add a slice of cheese and several pieces of meat to my sandwich and fold it in half. I switch the phone to my other ear and hop onto the counter.

“Depends on if you have good or bad news,” Gavin says. “I’m going to need a stiff drink if it’s bad news. And before you answer, let me remind you that the demand was so high for this show that we had to make it a ticketed event.” When I don’t answer right away, his distress kicks in. “Marlow? For the love of god, please put me out of my misery. Were you able to finish the collection?”

“You can relax, Gav,” I say in between bites of my sandwich. “The shipping company picked up the paintings today and they will be delivered to The Artist tomorrow morning. I also emailed over the photos for the programs a few minutes ago,” I tell him proudly.

I omit the fact that it was a close call and I barely took so much as a coffee break to finish the last three pieces ahead of schedule. I had concerns about the last painting not drying in time to ship, but thankfully it did.

“I’m so damn proud of you, babe. I can’t wait to see them in person. This calls for celebratory champagne. Matthew and I are taking you out when you get here,” he declares.

“I’d like that,” I say.

“Did you invite anyone to the show? Please tell me if I’m overstepping,” he rushes out.

“Gav, you’re one of my dearest friends. You can ask me anything,” I reassure him. “I sent an invitation to my mom and dad, but they never got back to me. I’m going to check in with them after this.”

I’ve invited my parents to every show in the past, but they always have an excuse for why they can’t come. It would mean a lot if, just for a single night, they could pretend to be proud of my accomplishments. I guess that’s too much to ask. Although I can anticipate their likely response, that won’t stop me from checking in. As an eternal optimist, I find it hard to resist holding out hope, even though disappointment is inevitable.

“What about those friends of yours in Maine, or a certain GQ hottie?” Gavin asks with a renewed interest. “I wouldn’t mind meeting him in person.”

“Quinn can’t leave her shop again so soon. Andi has a prior commitment with her nephew. And I didn’t invite Dylan. Things between us are complicated, and he has a business trip this weekend, so he wouldn’t be able to come anyway.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You’ve been holding out on me, babe. That doesn’t sound like you’re talking about someone who’s just your boss. You better dish out all the details when you get here.”

“You and Quinn are relentless.” I chuckle. “I promise I’ll catch you up once I get to New York.”

“I’ll hold you to that. You better call your mom before you get cold feet.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’ll see you soon.”

“Can’t wait. Bye, babe.”

I polish off the last of my sandwich and hop off the counter to pace the length of the kitchen, trying to find the courage to dial my mom. Gavin’s right. If I don’t do it now, I’ll chicken out. I doubt this is the typical reaction most people have when they call their parents.

Drawing in a deep breath, I muster the strength to press the call button. As it rings, it takes every ounce of willpower not to end the call before she answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mom.”

“Oh, hi, dear.” She sounds caught off guard by my call. “Is something wrong? Do you need your father to send you money?”

“No, Mom, that’s not why I’m calling.” I nibble my lower lip as I try to adequately articulate my thoughts. “I wanted to remind you about my gallery showing at The Artist this coming Saturday. It would mean a lot if you and Dad could be there.” I’m shaking once I get the words out.

“What art show? You haven’t mentioned it,” she says, sounding confused.

“I told you about it last month.” I keep my tone steady. “You asked if I could email you the details, which I did—twice.”

There’s a prolonged silence on her end before she finally responds. “Oh, yes, I did see those. I must have forgotten to email you back. Listen, honey, this coming weekend isn’t good for us. We have a dinner planned with a group of alumni at the university on Friday night, and you know how your father feels about New York City.”

I sink down to the floor, struggling to hold back tears. I’m not sure why I’m so emotional. It’s not like I didn’t expect this. My parents haven’t come to any of my shows and don’t like traveling outside of California. I just wish the outcome would have been different this time… but it never is.

“It’s okay, Mom. I understand.”

“I am sorry, dear. Why don’t you come to visit us soon?” she suggests. “But please don’t bring that dog of yours. You know that I’m allergic, and he’s far too loud.”

My parents haven’t met Waffles in person, but we video chatted shortly after I adopted him. My mom expressed concern about how I could afford to feed him on an artist’s salary, and my dad questioned my ability to care for a dog when I could barely take care of myself. As a result, I don’t mention Waffles much during our infrequent conversations.

“The next few months are going to be very busy for me, but I’ll see what I can do.” It’s been a while since I’ve visited my parents, and I have no plans to change that.

“Listen, dear, I have a stack of papers to finish grading, so I have to go,” my mom says abruptly.

“Oh, okay. Please tell Dad I say hi.”

“I will. Bye, Marlow.”

“Bye, Mom.”

My unshed tears stream down my face the moment I hang up.

Waffles comes racing over from his dog bed in the corner, jumping in my arms. He nuzzles into me, whining and licking my face. I’ve always appreciated his uncanny ability to be in tune with my emotions.

“I’m okay, boy. I promise.” I hug him tightly. By dictionary standards, I had a perfect childhood. I was raised in a comfortable house in a nice neighborhood and provided with the best education.

My struggles stem from my parents’ affection having conditions attached to it. They constantly encouraged me to fit into a mold because my thoughts and actions often differed from those around me. And they brushed me aside when they realized I would never be the person they wanted me to be.

I remind myself that I’m a strong, brave, and independent woman, not to mention a successful artist. My family might not get me, but I’m lucky to have the unwavering support of my friends.

During moments like these, I find myself wishing for the opportunity to build a family of my own. A family who will love me wholeheartedly, without conditions or stipulations.

Recently, I’ve been daydreaming about the possibility of being a part of Lola and Dylan’s family. The day the three of us spent together gave me a glimpse of what it would be like to be part of something truly special, and I find myself wanting that more than anything.