Daphne Collins, a 21-year-old aspiring artist who is attempting to make her way in the world of the bustling New York City. Though when a new nannying job gets offered to her, she takes it, hopeful that it'll give her the extra money and nudge to ma...
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Chapter Song - Someone New by Hozier
Coconut and vanilla. Messy blonde hair. Melted caramel eyes. Pale skin that ignites ice in the crowd of people with fresh summer tans.
In three languid, lonely years I had felt nothing such as attraction towards another woman. Not ever since my late wife Jennifer died, my heart couldn't even bristle the thought of someone new.
But her. Daphne.
I couldn't pin point the location of this unlocked door.
She was a breath of fresh air, was I entering Spring early? Amongst the crowd of women my age who were doused in their grandmothers old pearls and their perfectly steamed Ralph Lauren sweaters, she was the glint that made their jewels shine.
The personas in this suburb, this intimate upper area were made of the same gold and diamond; Wealthy, snobbish, and bluntly ignorant. And thought the raw cut of a diamond that's have you bleeding wasn't the sharpness of all the people here, too many unapproved people were running out with open wounds.
But I didn't let my brain rest my heart into a dwell. Not when a blatant fact between us sat tooting it's elephant trunk; Daphne was 21. I was 43.
That was a 22 year age gap.
Daphne's life was a blank canvas, mine was tattered with clumped ink. A widowed dad with two young daughters, one who hadn't gone on a date in years, probably didn't appeal to her much.
God, you fucking idiot. Daphne is the goddamn nanny and she's 21 -cut it the fuck out.
But I couldn't help it. All the hope I'd clung onto over letting go of this loneliness and the potential of connecting with someone genuine had wilted to dust. I had my girls who were my only lifeline, but they didn't fill the type of loneliness their mother left.
The kind where you sat in bed after the tiresome day and talked simply. The kind where you spent resting time with, even in silence and seperate tasks. It was this easy connection I longed for, one my brother and other family couldn't fill.
It was real fucking lonely.
And this ghostly memory of Jennifer floated through the walls, in rooms, in the air pockets of the home we built, of the two girls we created. Even though all her stuff was packed away in storage, and I'd clicked play on my life again, those memories of her; the pictures on our walls, the faint smell of her perfume, the whispered chuckles of her laughter.
They all remained in a capacity of longing, of craving for companionship.
Living was lonely, especially as the spirit of a ghost had been my company for years now. I couldn't do it anymore, if I continued, it'd drive me insane.
