I administer another dose, praying it won’t do any damage and I let my hand linger on her hip afterwards. When I glance up a few minutes later and see the color start to return to her face with beads of sweat gathering along her hairline, my stomach slowly begins to settle.
When she groans and her beautiful face grimaces as she rubs against the arm that had been acting as her pillow, I finally let out my first choked breath.
“Annaliese,” I whisper, not wanting to scare her since she’s likely going to wake confused. “Can you open your eyes?”Her lids flutter, and I internally beg her to keep trying. My hand that was resting on her hip runs up the length of her back until I reach her face, and I smooth away the matted hair against her forehead, coaxing her awake.
She tries to say something, her speech a drunken slur but I think I make out something that sounds an awful lot like Anderson.
“Don’t worry about the surgery. Don’t even think about work right now. We need to make sure you’re okay first.”
My voice must register something in her because she grimaces again, her face pinching together before she finally opens her eyes, looking directly at me.
I hadn’t realized how close I had moved to her, but with my arm draped over her side and my voice near her ear, the position puts us so close I notice flecks of yellow swirling in her brown irises.
She looks up at me with heavy lids trying to focus, and when she realizes it’s me, her whole body tenses.
Guilt washes over me in a thousand waves, one crashing over the other as I internally kick myself for being so blind. But I don’t have time to mutter any sort of an apology because Annaliese’s face immediately pales and she purses her lips together, bringing a hand to slap over her mouth.
She leans over, pointing furiously with her other hand to the garbage can next to my side, and I reach for it just in time as she starts retching.
Nothing comes out, but it isn’t because her body isn’t trying.
Her petite frame curls in on itself while awful, nearly animalistic sounds come from her as her body tries to fight through the drastic change in glucose. An extreme low to what is now likely a high in a matter of minutes.
When her body gives up, sagging with either exhaustion or relief, she rolls back onto the couch, and I see the streams of tears that have made their way down her face. She pulls out her phone from underneath her, swiping at the screen and finally the maddening ringing stops. She throws an arm over her head, and I can tell by the way her mouth twitches she’s trying to hold it together. I’m sure she doesn’t want to break down in front of me, and if it was possible to hate myself any more than I already do at this moment, that thought would do me in.
God knows I’ve created such a barrier between us that she doesn’t want to show weakness. I’ve led her to believe that I can barely tolerate her, when in reality it’s the opposite. But it’s what I thought I had to do; it’s what Richard’s asking of me. And it’s about time I sit myself down and ask why the fuck I let it happen.
Wanting to give her a moment of privacy, I take that opportunity to stand and look around the small space for a washcloth or towel, something I can use to help her wipe her face. There isn’t much in this room besides the worn couch she’s on and a chipped countertop with a sink and a mini fridge.
I snag a few of the cheap, single-ply paper towels and run them under the cold tap before squeezing out the excess water.
I return to her side, and she still hasn’t moved, using her arm to shield her face as she silently sobs.
Lowering my voice, I keep it as soothing as possible, approaching her like she’s a wild animal with her leg in a trap. “It’s okay, Annaliese, let me help.”
I reach my free hand up to gently usher her arm away from her face, but she tightens her muscles. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
She doesn’t let her arm fall, but when I wait a moment and try again, it finally gives way. I lower it gently to her side, and with my palm against her cheek I coax her to turn to me. I use the wet towels to wick the sweat away from her forehead and neck, hushing her when she tries to speak.
We continue this act, me crouched at her side gently drying her tears and sweat as she lays there; as the minutes pass, her body becomes red and flushed, trembling intensely.
“Can you sit up?” I ask, knowing that she likely wants to lie here for days, but she needs to get out of this hospital. If I were her, the last place I’d want to deal with these side effects would be here at work, lying on a stiff, two-seater couch that's been in the break room for as long as I can remember.
She nods, and I lean back a little, moving my hands to rest on her hips as she sits up.
She sways a bit with the motion, so I tighten my grip, freeing one hand to hold onto her bicep. Only then do I feel the small telltale circle of a sensor on the back of her arm. How I never noticed that before irritates the hell out of me.
I tap her watch, seeing her sugar is now at a safe level, but that it’s also going to climb into possibly dangerous territory given my panic and the extra dose of glucagon.
“We should get you to the ER, get you checked—”
“No,” she grunts out forcefully, before wincing and grabbing at her head. “No,” she says again. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get home.”
“Okay, but we should at least tell your dad.”
She chuckles, but it isn’t her regular snicker, it’s darker, more ominous. “He’s the last person I’d ever tell.”
Her words are cold, and the meaning behind them isn’t lost on me.
