Page 24 of Royal Crush
“That’s not what I meant?—”
He turned his back on me, cutting me off. Giving his wheels a hard push forward, he rolled across the floor before grabbing them to stop. He pushed one to spin around, then did the same thing back toward me. The chair rolled to a stop an inch away from my foot.
“Well?”
I didn’t know. It was like being asked a question in a foreign language.
Rolling his eyes, he sighed and shook his head. “You’re pushing like this.” He began to mimic me—small pushes to move half a foot at a time. I could feel the lingering ache in my arms just watching him.
But I also didn’t understand what he was trying to show me.
“Are you just trying to make me feel like a moron?” I could hear my tone—it wasn’t polite. I’d been shit-scared literally all day that I was going to make an ass of myself in front of him, and he was telling me now that was exactly what I’d done. He just wasn’t telling me how. Or why. “Also, do you think people are really going to notice or care if I’m not doing…whatever you think I should be doing?”
He blinked at me. “People like me will.”
“Princes.”
“Don’t be obtuse,” he snapped.
He was right. I was just trying to avoid saying disabled. It still felt…wrong. Like the dirty word I’d grown up believing it was. His entire book was a treatise on how it needed to be normalized, but it still felt like I wasn’t allowed to say it.
“I mean, how many wheelchair-bound?—”
“Don’t,” he bit out angrily, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t use that phrase. It’s wheelchair users.”
I swallowed heavily, taking the critique without complaint. “Thosepeopleare actually going to watch? I mean, what’s the percentage here?”
He looked like he wanted to set me on fire with his eyes. “Are you trying to say that if it’s a small percentage,those peopledon’t matter?”
“No. They matter. But in terms of criticism and episode reviews, people are definitely going to give a bigger shit about the drama than they are about whether or not I can push a chair correctly.”
“Which is why you should be fucking fired,” he said.
“I—”
“I’m done. If you’re going to be just like every other shit-stain ableist out there, I’m not going to bother with you. You’re not worth it.”
Christ. I was fucking up like that was my job instead of all this. I felt small, and I deserved to. The reality of my words hit me as the door slammed behind him, and my stomach lurched like it wanted to heave all over my shoes.
What the fuck was wrong with me? I knew what it was like to scream into a void full of people who refused to listen. I knew what it was like being a person that no one ever believed. That no one respected.
So why was I acting like everyone else who made me feel small and pathetic?
Turning on my heel, I started toward the door, but a strong hand caught my arm. My heart fell to my feet, and panic raced up my spine before I reminded myself that I was safe. No one on this set was going to hurt me.
I turned to see the photography director whose name I could never remember holding my elbow. It felt like he was towering over me in spite of the fact that he barely had an inch on me, and I wanted to shove him off.
“You need to get into wardrobe.”
“What? No, I?—”
“We’re setting up for the throne room scene.”
Christ on a fucking cracker. I peered out through the small window that led to the corridor, but there was no sign of Camillo anywhere. I turned and found the wide-eyed PA who had gotten me water.
“You.Hey! Hi.”
The young woman paled.
