Page 53 of Make You Mine

“You’re a lifesaver. I’ll owe you one. Scratch that—I’ll owe you five.”

“Add it to the growing tab,” I mutter, already calculating what I’ll need to do just to get out the damn door.

We hang up with added weight burdening my shoulders.

For a second, I just sit there, phone resting against my collarbone. I could send Chelsea. She’s used to running errands now, used to stepping in when I’m buried. But something about that doesn’t sit right.

I’m the mom. I’m his wife. And lately, it feels like I’ve handed over too much.

It feels like… I’m losing control of my own household, handing over the reins to another woman.

It’s something I’ve refrained from openly admitting to myself, but the more little fires pop up out of nowhere, the more it lingers in my subconscious. The more I’ve begun to resent Chelsea’s mere presence in our house, even if I haven’t let myself admit as much.

There’s a reason I suggested we let her go after Scotland, and it really had nothing to do with my manuscript being finished.

It might sound silly, but I feel like I have something to prove. Declan’s depending on me, and lately I’ve failed at so much, I want to show him—andmyself more than anyone—that Icando this.

WithoutChelsea swooping in to save the day.

I shove the candy wrapper into the nightstand drawer, wipe my hands on my leggings, and start preparing to leave the house.

I head downstairs and find Willow with Chelsea in the kitchen. The five-year-old’s swinging her legs at the table, happily munching on carrot sticks while Chelsea slices strawberries into a bowl. The scent of toasted bread and fruit lingers in the warm air, and I catch the faint traces of Willow’s favorite cartoon playing in the next room.

“Hey,” I say, grabbing my purse off the kitchen counter. “I’ve gotta run something to Declan real quick. He left a USB at home and needs it for a meeting.”

Chelsea looks up immediately, a crease forming between her brows. “That’s a shame. But are you sure you’ve got time for that, my dear? You’ve still got a mountain of packing and writing ahead, haven’t you?”

“I’ll only be gone an hour or two, tops,” I say, adjusting the strap of my purse on my shoulder. “Train station drop-off. Quick in and out. Emmett’s already down for his afternoon nap.”

Chelsea sets down the knife and wipes her hands on a towel. “At least take a snack with you. It’ll be lunch soon, and you look like you're running on fumes.”

I wave a hand, already half turned toward the door. “I’m fine. I’ll grab something on the way if I need it.”

“Don’t make me lecture you like a mum, Amerie. At least toss a granola bar in your bag.”

“Alright, alright. Message received.”

“Bye, Mommy,” Willow murmurs, raising her little hand in a wave. She seems hesitant, not surprising given how I’d snapped at her earlier.

“Bye, Lo. I’ll be back before you know it,” I say, kissing the top of her curls. I head for the door, the afternoon sun already cutting through the front windows.

The quiet click of the door behind me feels louder than it should. I take a breath and step into the spring air, already moving fast toward the train station.

I’m barely through the doors of the Rosethorne Station when I realize something’s wrong. Not just a little off, not the kind of exhaustion that comes from a long day juggling deadlines and household chaos, but something that’s deeply off.

The air feels thick despite the spring breeze filtering in through the open archway, and as I take another step forward, the polished tile beneath my flats seems to pitch slightly, the floor tilting just enough to make me blink hard and steady my hand on the nearest column. My pulse thuds heavily in my throat, and I can feel the prickle of sweat breaking out along my spine, dampening the back of my blouse.

I stand there for a moment, disoriented by the swirl of noise and motion around me—commuters jostling past with phones pressed to their ears, the clatter of rolling luggage over brick, the screech of distant train brakes—and try to swallow the rising nausea pushing against the back of my throat.

I ate breakfast. I remember the exact moment: sitting at the kitchen table while Emmett cooed in his highchair and Willow rambled about Scottish castles. Two poached eggs, a toasted whole wheat muffin, and a strong cup of coffee.

I took my insulin exactly like I was supposed to. Yet something’s wrong. Something’soff.

My vision has blurred at the edges, like a vignette filter pulled tight around my peripheral, and I realize I haven’t blinked in too long. My thoughts are sluggish. Everything feels like it’s happening a half-second behind.

I need to sit down right now.

Luckily, there’s a bench tucked along the side of a kiosk that’s empty. I make my way to it with stiff, halting steps, lowering myself slowly like any sudden movement will knock me over. My purse drops into my lap, heavier than it should be, and I dig through it with trembling hands, ignoring how my glucose monitor has started frantically beeping. I pull free the granola bar Chelsea handed me earlier. I tear it open with my teeth and chew mechanically, barely tasting the oats and honey as I force the dry, crumbling pieces down, following it with a couple of chocolates I keep for emergencies.

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