“Shit.” Her eyes quickly scan the screen as she scrolls through the missed calls and messages from my mom. “I thought things were getting better.”
I did too. Then we spent my two weeks at home for holiday break on opposite sides of the house. Things have been uneasy between my mom and me since my dad passed away five years ago, and everything turned into a full-blown shit-show when I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. I wanted one night to not feel like a failure.
I open my continuous glucose monitoring app, and my shoulders relax when the number shows my blood sugar is in range.
I’m a perfectionist. To a fault if you ask most people. I used to believe there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do well. Managing my diabetes has proved me wrong. Day after day I feel like a failure, struggling to put up afight against the all-consuming monster in my head: anxiety. Sometimes it hides, biding its time in the darkest and deepest corners of my brain, and when it comes out to play, good luck to me.
“I need to…” I trail off, crawling out of our shared seat. “I’m going to the restroom. I need a—”
“Breather,” she finishes for me. Shay takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I love you big.”
“I love you bigger.”
Keeping my eyes on my phone, I make my way through the jam-packed aisles, maneuvering through drunks who forgot their inside voices at home. My favorite sandals are ruined by the puddles of stale water, and if one more person with wet hands touches me, I’m going to lose it.
“This is why I hate pools—” I choke on air, yanked backwards by my shirt as the restroom door blows past me with a gust of foul air.
“Seriously, MalPal? That door could’ve taken your head off! You and that damn phone.”
I know that silly voice and Black dad warning from anywhere. Suddenly, I no longer care about my soggy sandals when Cade whirls me around. Locs hang to his shoulders, swaying gently like the rest of his body. Tonight’s eye color is more green than brown, the tell-tale sign that my hazel-eyed friend is wasted. “A penny for your thoughts?”
“Come on, Cader Tot. You know it isn’t smart to ask a lady what’s on her mind, because it probably isn’t very kind.”
“When are your thoughts ever kind?” He hands over a package of candy before I can flick him. “I missed you, Mal. I just want to make sure we’re starting the year with me as your favorite Guardian of the Blood Sugar.”
Cade looks over my head at my other guardian, who is dozing off in our seat where I left her. Friends with benefits is what Shay and Cade arecalling their little arrangement, but I’d bet a million dollars they’ll be a couple by the end of the semester.
I pop a red fish into my mouth, savoring the burst of sugar on my tongue. “I have another reason you shouldn’t be friends with Gray.”
“Other than the fact that he’s beating you?” Cade ignores my glare and bops my nose. “Give me your best shot.”
“He’s too pale!” I say. “Aren’t you worried he’s secretly a vampire?”
“Not everyone is blessed with melanin like us. In a few months, he’ll be nice and tan and you can stop stressing.”
I cross my arms. “Does that mean my request is denied?”
“Yup.”
“Well, I’d like to make an appeal.”
Cade lets out a drunk giggle before his attention lands above my head. “Hey, Kent! We were just talking about you! Weren’t we, MalPal?”
I narrow my eyes at Cade. If I had laser vision, he would be a pile of dust at my feet.
“Of course you were,” Kenneth says, the warmth of his body acting like my own personal space heater. My back feels like it’s in a damn sauna.
Although Cade’s mouth doesn’t move, his eyes shimmer, darting down to me and back up. One curse of the two guys being friends since kindergarten is their ability to talk telepathically.
At five-ten, I’m above average height. Standing here between Kenneth at six-three and Cade at six-five, I feel tiny. I inch to the left slowly, desperate to slip out of this awkward, tall-people sandwich.
Cade jabs a finger over his shoulder right as I’m close to freedom. “Did you guys hear someone call my name?” he asks.
Hell no.
“Yeah, that’s Shay. She probably needs me to… do something… I should go,” he says, unable to keep a straight face.
“I will strangle you where you stand, string bean,” I hiss.
