LANA MASON
The last time I packed a bag to stay anywhere for an extended period of time was last October when Mr. and Mrs. Myers took a four-day trip for their wedding anniversary. I stayed at home with the kids and basically got to experience first-hand what it's like to be a single mother...albeit a single mother living in the Upper East Side with no responsibilities other than her children. Honestly, I had a blast.
This time around, I'm trying to decide how to pack lightly so I don't show up to Harry's apartment looking like I'm about to move in as a permanent resident. I'm not sure why I find it so mortifying to overpack, which is unfortunate for a chronic over-packer. I guess I've always been a bit insecure about people finding me to be high-maintenance because I'm not. I don't think so, anyway.
With all my clothes air-folded on my bed, I go down the list and make sure I have enough underwear and a couple of bras, my most modest and child-appropriate pajamas even though Jane nor her father will be seeing me in them, three pairs of jeans, six tops to have a new one every day, one lighter zip-up jacket, and one coat. I yank my phone charger out of the wall and throw it into the mix, plus two cosmetic bags—one for skincare and hygiene, and one for makeup.
"Okay," I huff and check the time before I begin stuffing everything in my medium-sized suitcase.
It's 6:48 a.m., which gives me enough time to pick up an egg, cheese, and bacon bagel, but I'll have my coffee at Allison's. She's got the good stuff and she practically insisted that I treat her kitchen like it's my own. I felt hesitant about it at first, but now that I've been with the family for two weeks, going on my third, I'm beginning to feel more comfortable with them. Well, with Allison and Jane.
Despite Harry still apparently living at the SoHo apartment up until today, the last time I saw him was the first time I met the whole family. Maybe I just have no idea about what it's like to work in a restaurant, but are the hours really that long? I mean, I get to the apartment no later than eight every morning, and the latest I've left is 11:30 p.m. He still never arrived home, which makes me wonder if he's sleeping at his restaurant or...with someone else. My theories for the separation are only growing in number at this point.
I wheel my suitcase over to the door with my everyday tote bag and make one more round over by the bedroom section of my studio to make sure I haven't forgotten anything. The picture frame of my birth parents catches my eye on the shelf across from my bed as the incoming sun reflects the glass, which brings a smile to my face as I kiss my fingers and tap the frame. Then I'm off.
"Oh no, what the hell do you want?" Jackson, my regular bodega owner, teasingly rolls his eyes as I lug my haul through the door.
"If you've forgotten my order after three years, you must be getting senile," I tease back with a sympathetic pout.
"Yeah, yeah," he laughs and starts on my bagel. "Anything else today? Breakfast M&Ms maybe?"
"Oh my God, that was one time!" I snatch the pretzel variation anyway and drop it on the counter. "For my kid."
"Your who?" His already wrinkled forehead produces a few more as his brows shoot up.
I laugh, knowing that was the reaction I'd get. "The kid I nanny for."
"Christ," he scrapes the scrambled egg patty and cheese mixture off the flattop grill and slaps it on an everything bagel, wraps it in deli paper, and cuts it in half. I dig my wallet out to pay, and he says, "Get outta my sight."
"What?" I scoff and try to hand him a $10 anyway.
"Ah-" He holds his hands up in defense. "You're holding up the line."
