Page 70 of Time Stops With You

Sara smiles.

Dr. Young nods proudly.

“Alright, everyone,” I slap my hands together, “let’s get to work.”

Eight

NARDI

I do not care that Ronan Cullen, a seriously ill patient, is avoiding the hospital.

It has nothing to do with me.

So what if he’s intentionally not taking treatment that could save him?

He’s a grown man.

And why shouldIbe the one to get through to him? I have my own issues to think about.

Yesterday, Josiah’s school sent me an email reminding me of my agreement to volunteer at their annual fundraiser.

At the beginning of the year, I filled out a form committing to attend a bunch of PTA meetings and helping to organize the event. I’ve been skipping out on the meetings because I stick out like a sore thumb inside the room filled with pampered housewives who get manicures and Botox for a living.

If I could, I’d be a no-show, but it was either volunteer at the fundraiser or I write the school a check. I definitely didn’t havethe money to donate to anything, so I need to at least show my face.

On top of the dreaded PTA meetings, I’m now sneaking around the hallways, looking over my shoulder to avoid Big T. His awkward ramblings are getting closer and closer to a full-out date request.

I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off.

And my biggest worry of all? My little brother is an eleven-year-old hacker, who may or may not, at this very moment, be preparing his next cyber crime.

If that’s not a filled plate, I don’t know what is.

Ronan Cullen has millions of dollars to wipe his tears with at night. With billionaire friends like Darrel Hastings in his corner, he’ll be fine.

He’s not my problem.

“Nardi, the rice is burning.” Josiah’s voice brings me out of my thoughts.

“Huh?”

Without removing his attention from his phone, Josiah points to the stove. I yelp when I realize I turned the burner up to the maximum when I should have turned it down low to allow the rice to steam.

“Oh no! Oh no!” I yank an oven mitt from the hook and drag the giant rice pan off the burner completely.

Upon removing the lid of the pan, the smell of burnt rice becomes ten times stronger. I completely ruined it.

“Josiah, put on those oven mitts over there and help me grab this.”

My brother moves at the pace of a snail crawling over nails. I resist the urge to bark at him and tap my feet on the ground, waiting until he takes out his ear buds, slowly sets his phone down and strolls over to me like a gentleman inPride and Prejudiceparading about the town.

“Finally. Take that end,” I order him.

He grabs it with his dark fingers. “Are you going to throw it out?”

“I can’t sell burnt rice to people, can I?” I answer sarcastically.

Josiah purses his lips, knowing better than to answer me when I’m in this state.

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