Page 2 of Ms. Lead

What I am sorry for is hurting Darcie because she doesn’t deserve to be the victim of my rage. She’s been nothing but tolerant of me, which is much more than I deserve from her.

She’s back within minutes carrying a set of crutches, with a nurse following behind, pushing an empty wheelchair. The sight of both disability aids causes a sinking feeling in my gut to spread as I glimpse my bleak future unfolding in front of me. Perhaps a distant future, but ultimately mine just the same.

“I told her you’d refuse the wheelchair and opt for the crutches if given a choice, but she insisted on presenting both to you.” Darcie lifts her shoulders in a shrug. “So, what’ll it be? Limp along on crutches to the car? Or make me your slave and force me to push you in the chair? At your own peril, I might add.”

“The chair is only to get you to the car. You don’t get to keep it,” the nurse chimes in, her voice stern. She’s clearly not happy with Darcie’s interference.

I’m not happy at the suggestion that I’d be excited to keep a wheelchair to use. That’s the last thing I’d be excited about.

“Crutches are fine.” The scowl on my face must be harsh since both women blanch at my response. I’m not in the mood to deal with niceties or be polite now, and I just want to go home. “Let’s go.”

Filching the crutches from Darcie, I hobble my way awkwardly toward the exit without looking back or saying another word. I’m too busy trying to hide the fact that I’m clenching my jaw in extreme pain. I’ve had my fill of doctors and hospitals to last a lifetime, so if I don’t need to be here, you can bet I’ll haul my ass out of here at the first opportunity, crutches or not.

I just want to go home where I can get away from that look of concern from my friend, who doesn’t even know she’s doing it, or what it’s doing to me. Where I can prep for my trip to the states alone and in peace.

I’m looking forward to being around people who don’t know me or my condition and will treat me like a normal human being, not the ticking time bomb everyone here thinks I am. To be fair, they’re not entirely wrong. Time is something I’m now keenly aware of, and how precious it is.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Chapter Two

BIANCA

CRASH

This is so typical. Something happens with Normandy or Chelsie, the half-sisters and co-owners of Mischief Motors, and I automatically get nominated to take over whatever project they suddenly can’t handle.

This time, Chelsie has gone into labor early with her second baby, and now I’ve been assigned to cart around some pretentious British writer for an entire month. And I need to babysit on top of it. I don’t know when I signed up for all of this.

While on the outside, and to Normandy and Chelsie, I make it out to be a huge inconvenience to watch the kids, in reality, I absolutely love it. Normandy’s daughter Ava and Chelsie’s son Jett are usually a breeze to watch, and I like spending time with them. They can be more fun to be around than adults since they speak their minds so freely and don’t care about social niceties.

While I tend to voice my opinion on things, there’s always that tiny honest bit that is held back or filtered for fear of retribution. Young children can completely be themselves and say what they think when they think it. I envy that freedom.

“His flight arrives at 1:30. He’ll be staying at Bliss casino, and I’ve already emailed you his complete itinerary,” Normandy says as she rushes toward the door. “There’s supposed to be a barbeque at our house on Sunday, but that might have to get moved to next weekend. Thanks again for doing this. I’ll call you as soon as there’s news.” She halts in her tracks, then returns to give Ava a quick peck on the cheek and tousles Jett’s dark hair before hurrying out the door.

Normandy and I were friends before she became my boss, and while sometimes the lines blur between our friendship and our jobs, it’s usually not a problem. She’s the high-strung overthinker, and I’m usually the laid-back, go-with-the-flow one. It works, especially during emergencies like this.

Once the door shuts and quiet settles over the three of us, we look at each other expectantly. Jett is the first to react.

“I’m hungry.” He gives me a pitifully starving expression while rubbing his allegedly empty stomach.

“Don’t believe him,” Ava argues with a heavy sigh, placing her fists on her hips in disappointment. “He just ate lunch at my house.”

“But that was a long time ago,” Jett whines.

“Was not.”

Before I need to start a full-blown mediation, I suggest a plan.

“How about we pick up Mr. Bellamy from the airport and deliver him to his hotel, and then we’ll all grab a snack together?”

The two toddlers eye each other warily, gauging who will be first to cave in to my suggestion. This is a new dynamic I wasn’t expecting. In the past, it’s been a race to see who can go along with me first. I’m not sure how I feel about this new approach. I sense a power struggle approaching on the horizon; of course, it would be at the worst possible time.

“You two think about it while I get the car ready.”

As I install their car seats, I can hear them bickering between themselves about what they ate for lunch, whether it was good or not, who is a better cook between their mothers, Normandy wins that one, who is hungrier, what the best snack in the world is, turns out it’s french fries, and who could eat the most fries in one sitting.

My money’s on Jett, who is turning into a bottomless pit when it comes to food. He’s been named appropriately and is so active anything he eats gets burned off almost instantly. How Chelsie and Noah keep their refrigerator stocked is a modern miracle.

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