“I’ll be on the lookout, then.” He hands me a silver stand with a number fixed to it and jerks his head toward the dining area. “A server will bring your order to your table when it’s ready.”
“Thanks.” I turn on the heel of my Vans, with his gaze burning into my back as I walk toward the cluster of tables. It’s an intimate setting. Dark. Cozy. Artsy. Nearly every seat is occupied, and the line is at least ten deep. It’s nice to see locals and tourists coming together to give this place their money rather than some corporate chain store.
Hashtag: supportsmallbusinesses.
Kerri claims one of the few empty booths. “How do you do that?”
“What?” I slide in opposite her and shrug off my backpack.
She folds her hands on the table. As always, she’s the picture of poise. “Win over every man you meet?”
I’m positive she’s gone crazy. “Sorry, what?”
“You heard me.” Her blue eyes cut through me. “Men fall at your feet, Faith. It’s a fact.”
I snort-laugh at her absurdity as I pull out my phone. “Except for the dozens in Brighton who treated me like I was a disease.”
Kerri’s brows arch so high, they practically graze her hairline. “They couldn’t have you. That’s why they pretended they didn’t want you. Please don’t tell me you didn’t see through their nonsense.”
“Whatever.” In this, we must disagree.
The continuous glucose monitor—CGM—on the inside of my upper arm is a small sensor and transmitter that sends a constant feed of my blood sugar level to an app on my phone. Diabetes went digital, and it means I can also wear an insulin pump. I opted to keep my medication delivery system old-school and do the whole injection thing. The CGM, though, bypasses the need for finger pokes. The sensor also alerts me if my sugar rises too high or falls too low. This system makes managing my illness easier. Sometimes it’s more stressful, too, if that makes sense. I’m always hyperaware of my blood glucose number. My BG, for short. I used to check it constantly. Now, it’s like…whatever. Unless I’m stressed, expending a lot of energy, going too long between meals, or the alarm goes off.
The alarm means I’m too low or too high and I need to fix my level.
Diabetes really does suck because, again, it’s one of those things that’s always running in the background of my life.
Always.
I open the app and note my BG because bad shit happens if I mis-dose myself. “I’m an acquired taste, one the men of Brighton found disgusting.”
Kerri tries to convince me otherwise, but this is a conversation we’ve had countless times over the years. It’s also a moot point now that I’m finally home. I wonder how much longer I would have stayed in Brighton if things hadn’t gone so epically bad.
Daniel Davenport, owner of Davenport Trading Corp., made it clear that my being from Mayhem fascinated him. He cornered me in my office and came dangerously close to forcing himself on me. An excellent shot to the balls stopped him cold. Maybe I kicked him a few times too while he was writhing on the floor, whimpering like a bitch. I didn’t bother going to the cops because I knew it wouldn’t do any good. He’d sleaze his way out of it and make me look like shit because he’s respected, and I’m…not. The next day, he surprised me with an apology that consisted of a generous severance payout and a glowing referral.
Did I say apology? I meant hush package.
Whatever. I took it and I left, using the lucrative sum to start over in Mayhem.
With my glucose number noted, I do a guesstimate of the carb count of the wrap. Then I pull out my injector pen and an alcohol swab, with the secret of what Daniel did sitting on my tongue like poison. Kerri doesn’t know. Iwantto tell her. I’m not ashamed because I did nothing wrong. But I’m afraid she’ll run up my ass because I didn’t go to the police.
And maybethat’swhat I’m ashamed of—my lack of willingness to go to war with Davenport.
It’s over, and I want to keep it behind me.
I set my insulin dose, swab my skin, and barely feel the needle when I give myself the quick jab to the back of my upper arm. I put everything away, stowing the used syringe in my bag to dispose of it when I get home.
Aside from sucking, diabetes is also a shitload of work. When I was diagnosed, I thought it meant I was going to die. A quick and painful death sentence. That I’d go to sleep one night and that’d be it, I wouldn’t wake up. But the fear passed, and the anger kicked in. Fury, actually. I hated my broken body. Hated everyone who didn’t have my disease. Because what started as constant thirst and stomachaches turned into something that changed everything about me in the blink of an eye. There I was, this little kid who couldn’t eat fun stuff anymore. I mean, I could, but who wanted the headache of counting and measuring every snack or slice of cake. So, I just stopped being a ‘normal’ kid for a long time. Until I got used this new version of me.
Eventually, I adjusted. I had no choice. Right? Wasn’t like I could flip a switch andnothave diabetes. This is my life. Counting carbs. Needles. Maintaining my health because I refuse to be a diabetic horror story. And we’ve all heard them. The amputated toes and whatnot. I live everyday with that sitting in the back of my mind. So yeah, I’m basically scared all the time that one day, this disease will either ruin me or kill me no matter how hard I fight to keep myself healthy.
After Kerri and I finish lunch, we linger, talking about everything and nothing. Matthew throws flirty glances my way, and it’s awesome to be seen as something other than a virus. Or as more than an object of fascination because of where I was born. In fact, I’m so busy reveling in the warm and fuzzies, I barely notice the two men who stride into the café.
But apparently, everyone else notices, including Kerri.
Wait. Is my friend drooling?
Oh my God, she is full-on gawking.
