Chapter Text
It wasn't supposed to end like this.
With the smell of antiseptic mixed with hope, anxiety, and despair.
Andy could still feel the New York City air blowing through her hair as she ran—
and ran, and ran, and ran.
It was all her fault.
Bronwyn almost died, and it was her fault.
Another day, another article to complete. It was a simple formula, one that Andy had become a master at. After decades of writing, the words came out of the tips of her fingers like extensions of her own mind. It took, like, forever, of course, to get there, but all the hard work paid off, regardless of the call that Nigel gave Irv almost two years ago.
Time. What a silly concept.
Every time she walked through these halls, it felt like twenty-two years had not passed. Like, at any moment, Miranda would walk to her desk, throw her coat and purse, and 'request' about 20 impossible tasks to be completed in the next two hours. And no, she did not need to hear any excuses about the other 80 tasks she had given them the day before.
Tasks where she would then look across her desk to Emily, who, depending on her mood and the amount of caffeine and nicotine in her system, would either give her some guidance while glaring or glare, make her suffer for a couple of minutes, tell her she shared a face with an abandoned dog at a shelter, and then give her instructions like it physically pained her to do so.
Of course, two decades have passed, and things have changed, even if the halls haven't.
She is the Senior Editor, Miranda's left hand—even if the other woman would rather die than admit it. She had her own office, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked toward the city. An assistant who handled her meetings and schedule, and a group of junior and senior journalists who would scramble around the world to fulfill whatever story she assigned them to.
Another thing that changed was that she no longer had Emily at the desk in front of her. Now, the only thing Andy needed to do to access the redhead's classic British sarcasm was to use her phone.
(Or drive to Emily's apartment at basically any time. Hand to God, she probably spent more time there than at her own apartment.)
Her phone, that is, ringing, and for some reason she can't fucking fi—
EUREKA!
Dork, a thought escaped her mind that sounded way too much like someone who was definitely not in the room and most definitely on a plane coming from Los Angeles.
Looking at the contact name, Andy didn't hesitate to answer.
"Hello?"
"Ms. Sachs? This is Paola with Chapin."
"Hi, is everything okay?" Andy responded, trying to control her anxiety. Both of the kids looked alright this morning. Roark, in his ever-present moodiness, which fourteen-year-olds seem to inherit at that age, was okay reading another sci-fi novel while eating the bacon, egg, and cheese bagel Andy had DoorDashed to the apartment. Bronwyn was quiet, which was unusual for the girl but had been the norm that week, since Andy was the one on the other side of the door instead of Frank when the redhead was preparing to leave for the airport.
Andy understood the pain—remembered, if she was being honest. Hoping for the person who was supposed to love you unconditionally to be on the other side of the door, ready to scoop you up in arms that are supposed to feel like home. Instead, that person was in Miami with their new family and baby.
So she decided not to push. Wynnie was an expressive kid, displaying not only her emotions on her face—the Charlton glare—but also with her words, communicating very clearly if something was wrong. Did she make a mistake?
"I fear not. According to the note left by Ms. Charlton, you are taking care of the kids until she comes back. Would you be able to pick her up? There was a... situation."
Yeah, that was one way to call it.
The moment that Andy got there, Wynnie was waiting for her. A picture-perfect angel sitting perfectly still in the reception area of the front office—the only thing that broke the picture was the little red nose, evidence of past tears.
Andy gave her a once-over, making sure that not a single hair had been hurt, even if the altercation had not been physical. The older woman walked up to where the girl was sitting. The moment she started walking toward her, it seemed that the girl had broken out of a daydream and raised her head, with an expression filled with—hope? But before Andy could question it, the expression left as quickly as it came, getting replaced with a deep sigh and crossed arms.
Knowing she would probably not get a lot of information from the fourth-grader, Andy made her way to the administrator, who was leaning against the front desk, speaking on a radio.
Apparently, Wynnie decided that sharing the swing seat at recess was actually not something she would be doing, no matter who told her to give another student a try. To really understand the full picture of the situation, it was better to use the whole quote:
I'm not bloody moving, you motherfucker with grandma shoes.
Well, she is definitely a British New Yorker.
If it were many years in the future and not to a teacher, then she would have been proud that the girl had stood up for herself. Now, however, it had left her with a sour taste in her mouth.
The kids did not curse.
There was actually a swear jar, which made its home in the living room right next to old editions of magazines. A swear jar that was sort of a religion under that roof, one that Wynnie took very seriously. Every month, the person who had put the least amount of money in it could use it to buy anything they wished. And if Andy remembered correctly, which she definitely did, Wynnie was just two days away from winning it all and getting the new bunny Jellycat that had come out.
Nevertheless, Andy quickly signed the early-dismissal form, picked up the Rylee + Cru baby-pink matching backpack and lunchbox, and walked back to the car with a now-crossed-armed and furrowed-browed Bronwyn.
It didn't take long for them to be on the road. Using a strategy from her own dad, she decided against any freeways, hoping that the feeling of the car and the soft melody coming from the radio would release some of the tension. However, Andy did not have as much impulse control as her father. Her instinct to help and fix whatever problem was at hand was taking over.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," Wynnie responded quickly, not offering any extra information.
"Okay, we don't have to talk about what you said, but maybe how you're feeling now? Maybe another angle will work. Wynnie was never shy about sharing her every thought. No response was given to the question. "Wynnie?"
"Don't call me that."
"Excuse me?" Surprise overcame the brunette's face.
"You're not my mum or my dad. Don't call me that," Wynnie said, with as much disgust as four feet could muster.
"Okay, Bronwyn. I understand that you're upset, but don't speak to me like that." Andy needed to take control of the situation. Something was going on, something bigger than just a stupid comment to a teacher.
"Why? You're just a stranger who started to show up out of nowhere." The volume rose higher after every word that came out of the young girl's mouth, pure anger taking over. "You don't care about us. You're just going to leave as fast as you came."
Her mind was working overtime to come up with a response. Where had all of this come from? Questions kept clouding her brain, demanding answers to the accusations that were plaguing a too-small and innocent mind. A mind that should be thinking about homework, colors, and her favorite stuffed animal.
Opening her mouth to respond to Bronwyn, hoping that the tone did not instigate the younger girl even more, before any word could come out, the call had taken over the screen of her car.
Nigel.
Andy's eyes drifted to the rearview mirror, giving a glance to the young girl, who was now looking out the window. Taking a big exhale, trying to conceal some of the emotion plaguing her voice, she answered the call.
"Yes, Nigel?"
"Miranda wants to meet in 15 minutes. Sending you the address now."
"I told Safiya that I would be unavailable for the rest of the day," Andy responded, speaking through her teeth. "I have the kids."
"And I wanted to go home before seven, but neither thing would happen. See you in 15."
Before she could respond, Nigel ended the call.
Apparently, nobody was letting her speak today.
Stopping at a red light, Andy picked up her phone and clicked on the address that Nigel had sent her.
"Okay, we will continue this conversation later. But we need to go to this lunch before going to the apartment," Andy said, looking once again at the rearview mirror, hoping to make eye contact with the girl.
No response was given.
Please land faster.
Entering the restaurant had been easier than she expected.
Honestly, Andy didn't know what she expected, but the silent treatment of a nine-year-old was not one of them.
Nevertheless, they made their way to the reserved table at the back of the restaurant, where Nigel and Miranda were already discussing whatever emergency had now taken over the fashion world.
Nigel spotted them first, his eyebrows betraying his so-called perfect poker face. Miranda followed, her eyes dragging from Andy to the little crossed-armed shadow behind her.
"You're late."
"Sorry, they closed 9th St. with some filming," Andy said as she and Bronwyn sat down at the table. The girl greeted the senior leaders of Runway with respect. "What's going on?"
With that, the three of them started to work on the situation. The server came and went, taking the orders of all four lunch attendants, bringing them drinks and the bread appetizer to accompany their handmade Italian entrées. The establishment was almost empty, with only three other tables occupied. No doubt a result of the closed street.
It's going to be a nightmare to go down to SoHo.
They continued to plan how they were going to respond to the "influencer" who decided to do an exposé on Runway after being rejected by the digital creation department. The only sound breaking their concentration was a wheezing sound coming from her right.
"You okay, honey?" Her attention broke away from her coworkers to the child next to her. When Andy's eyes looked at the younger girl, there was no mistaking that something was wrong. Her whole face was red, and a cough came out of her mouth when she tried to respond.
"I—can't," a violent cough combined with a whistling sound cut her off.
Andy rapidly got out of her chair and approached Bronwyn, crouching down and putting one hand on her back, patting it, hoping it was just a noodle that had gotten stuck down the wrong pipe.
"It's okay, honey. Keep coughing."
"Bronwyn, are you allergic to anything?" Nigel said from the other side of the table.
Another cough accompanied the answer, "Nuts."
"Andy, that's red pesto. It has almonds," Nigel warned her, urgency apparent in his tone.
With the revelation, Andy used her right hand to turn Bronwyn's face toward her. A rash had started to take over the sides of her mouth, her lips swelling with every passing second.
"Shit, Wynnie. Honey, it's going to be okay." Andy turned her head toward the other two table occupants. "Where is the closest ER?"
It was probably the first time that Andy had seen two of the most composed individuals she had ever met break a sweat trying to type rapidly on their phones. With the restaurant nearly empty, it was easy for the staff to notice them. They approached the table, a hostess already with a phone in hand, probably calling 911.
"Excuse me," the hostess with the phone said, grabbing their attention. Not Andy's—she was trying to calm Bronwyn as much as one could in the situation, putting a hand on her chest and whispering encouragement to continue breathing and to stay calm. "I have 911 on the phone. They are on their way, but 9th St. is closed, and 10th is clogged. It's going to take a couple of minutes."
NO NO NO NO NO.
With the way Bronwyn's breathing and rash started to get worse, it was obvious she couldn't wait for New York traffic to open up. The idea came to her mind. It might sound illogical in any other situation, but this was the fastest way to get Wynnie help, and she was sure as hell going to do everything to make sure she was going to be okay.
"She can't wait a couple of minutes." Andy's voice came out strong and determined. Taking her blazer off and throwing it on the floor, she quickly put one arm under the girl's legs and the other around her back, picking her up.
Turning around at a speed that challenged Superman, she ran out the door into the street. Boot heels clicking against the pavement, pushing pedestrians out of the way without a care in the world.
"I'm getting you help, Wynnie. I'm right here."
There was no stopping. Her mind was focused only on holding the girl close to her chest, holding her as close as humanly possible. The small brunette continued to wheeze out breaths and cough between them. Their violence made Wynnie tuck her head into Andy's neck.
Finally, she could see the doors of the ER. Crossing the street without interrupting her speed, she pushed the door open.
"Help. I need help." The desperate screams coming out of her felt distant. This wasn't happening. Why was this happening? She needed to be okay.
Nurses and doctors ran toward her, taking the small girl out of her arms. The whistling and wheezing had started to become more rapid, her lips still swollen and taking on a light purple color.
Andy tried to follow the doctors as they rushed Wynnie through a set of large doors. But a hand stopped her before she could take a second step.
"No. I need to go with her," Andy desperately said, her eyes never leaving the large doors, slightly pushing against whoever was stopping her.
"Please, ma'am, come this way. We need to ask some questions to help her."
Oh God.
Please not Wynnie.
How could she be so stupid?