“How does insulin work? Come on, Gray. I feel like that was explained in Bio 101 or something. It lowers—”
“Edwards,” he interrupts me. A grin brightens his face, and red tufts flop as he shakes his head. “I knowhowinsulin works in the sense of the definition. I want to know how it works for you. I bet you have an individualized plan.”
I cock my head at the freckled man across from me. Not once has he even acknowledged my diabetes. Even when I was getting awkward questions and confused looks, he kept the normalcy I craved, and I’m still thankful.
“Well. It’s a lot,” I stammer, unsure where to start unpacking that question. I don’t think anyone has ever asked about it.
“Sorry. That’s a pretty loaded question. And a bit weird.” He points at the soccer-ball fanny pack in front of me. “Can I take a look?”
I wait a beat before nodding and push it toward him. Wide eyed, he inspects and touches everything inside my diabetes kit. Everything but the needles.
He holds up an old medicine bottle. “Lactose pills?”
A surprised laugh slips out, so I cough to hide it. “Good guess, but no. Glucose tablets.” I pop the used needle into my sharps container. “Back to your question, the short answer is that I use my prescribed insulin-to-carb ratio before meals and snacks.”
Kenneth hums. “Now I’m curious to hear the long answer.”
While most people assume it’s only carbohydrates to think about, there’s so much at play. Timing, type of food, adjustments for my current blood sugar, corrections, and more. Plus, you can’t forget about hormones. My time of the month is the worst.
I shake my head. We need to get back on track. “Actually, let’s focus on the project. I doubt you came here to listen to me talk about myself for an hour.”
Kenneth runs a hand through damp, scarlet waves. A soft smile tugs at the corners of his lips when he meets my eye. “Maybe next time then,” he says quietly.
I don’t have a clue how to respond to that, so I keep my mouth closed and reach for the saltshaker to keep my hands busy. It’s terrifying how Kenneth can sound so genuine. Pretending to be interested in my care plan seems like a bit much. Even for him.
The worst part is that my lips almost betrayed me and smiled. My brain must have malfunctioned.
“Here you go!” Libby sings, startling me with her sudden appearance. A flurry of white granules scatter across the table. I apologize for the mess and mindlessly play in the salt until she drops off our food and drinks and heads back to the counter.
“Maybe youarecursed,” Kenneth says, flattening the pad of his forefinger against the salt. “Pinch some between your fingers and toss it over your left shoulder.”
I pause. That’s exactly what I was about to do. “You’re superstitious?”
“I’m not, but for someone who claims to be so unlucky, Iassume you are.”
He’s right. I am superstitious. I avoid ladders like the plague. Flocks of birds are a big no-no. Splitting poles is my worst nightmare. Friday the 13th is my least favorite day, and I won’t leave the house if possible. Then Shay brought home a black cat from the shelter, and I decided to test fate. Winry was too cute to turn away.
I toss salt over my left shoulder, and the aura of bad juju disappears instantly.
After cleaning up the salty mess, I reach into my backpack, pull out two thick folders, and slide one across the table. “Here you go. I printed off everything we need to ace this project.”
And get me an internship to secure my future.
“Let me guess.” Kenneth holds the folder beside his head. “A gray folder for Gray?”
“Ding ding ding,” I chant.
A slip of gold paper falls onto the floor when he opens the folder. Using his insanely long swimmer arms, he reaches down to retrieve it and looks at me through the single punched hole. “A golden ticket? Eddie… Are you taking me to the Chocolate Factory?”
“You know I’d take Cade over you in a heartbeat,” I say. “And no. This will count down the meetings until we are free of each other.”
According to Dr. Martin’s rubric, partners must meet three times for the project. Instead of wallowing about my predicament, I used those feelings to do something productive. The ticket in his hand is an hour of crafting.
Some people use sex to burn energy. My celibate ass crafts.
He studies it for a moment. “You act like you won’t have to see me after we punch three holes, Edwards. Are you that excited to get rid of me?”
I don’t answer, and thankfully he doesn’t push. I’m not looking for a fight. I would like to enjoy my hot chocolate and egg bites in peace. I open my lime green folder and jot the due dates into my planner.
