Page 41 of Connectio

“They’re hardly practical, Lib.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

He huffs. “Not your brightest idea.”

Oliver walks off, directing the kids back to the classroom, so I clasp the handles of the cart, push forward, and give it a nudge with my hip to begin momentum. It clangs and rolls along the bumpy asphalt, and I stumble behind, trying to keep it straight while also trying to keep up with Oliver, who has conveniently powered ahead.

“Don’t wait for me,” I mumble.

The wheel of the cart hits a rock, and both the cart and I come to an abrupt halt, nearly toppling over. “Shit!”

“What’s wrong?” Oliver calls out.

He doesn’t make a move to double-back and help me, so I plaster on a faux smile and shout, “Nothing!” through gritted teeth while trying to right the cart again.

“Just take your stupid heels off.”

“I would if I could, you idiot,” I hiss under my breath.

A flash of orange hits my peripheral vision, and I look up, spotting Will jogging toward me.

“Need a hand?”

“No,” I lie. “I’m good. Just a hit a rock.”

Ignoring me, he takes possession of the cart and repositions it. “Now you’re good.”

I snatch the cart back, embarrassed. “I said I was fine.”

“Actually, you said you were good.”

“Whatever.”

Kicking off my heels, I pick them up, toss them into the cart, and give it a mighty shove, my bare foot landing on a stone after my first step.

“Ffff—” I limp and close my eyes, willing the godawful sting to subside. “Damn it!”

Before I’m able to inspect the damage, I’m hauled into the air and slung over Will’s shoulder, the cart once again clanging and banging as he walks.

“Will! What are you—?”

“Where to?” he asks as if I’m not draped over him like a fur shawl.

“Nowhere! Are you crazy? Put me down!”

“I can’t stand to watch you hurt yourself any longer. Just tell me where you need to go, and I’ll get you there.”

The lunchtime bell blasts through the speakers in the yard, and I panic for fear of someone seeing us. “Please put me down. I can walk.” I try to straighten my body, which is when I see Brooke, plastered to her classroom window like a starfish, her Grade 1 students gathered around her and pointing at us as they giggle. “Pleeease,” I beg. “This isn’t professional.”

“You hurting yourself left, right, and fucking centre isn’t professional either.”

“Okay, okay. I agree. Fine, you can help me with the cart.” I slap his back. “Yes. You push the stupid cart, and I’ll walk in the stupid heels.”

He stops and places me on my feet again. “That I can do.”

I quickly wiggle the hem of my skirt down my legs and say, “Thank you.” Then, utterly embarrassed, I place my palm to my forehead and sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m just an idiot. I’ve no idea why I agreed to wear these damn things.”

Children spill out of their classrooms and into the yard like bees leaving a hive.