“I understand,” I tell her honestly. “A lot more than you'd probably realize.”
Her big brown eyes meet mine, and we stare at each other, another mutual understanding growing between us.
“I’ll never call you Princess again,” I promise her.
She smiles, taking a hand out to run her fingers along the seam of the blanket. “What are you going to call me instead? Twat?”
I bark out a laugh and my posture softens with the change in conversation. “Maybe. Or Kid. Sparky. Pain in the ass. I’ll call you whatever I think will light a fire under you.”
“Wouldn’t want you to start getting soft on me.”
She means it as a joke, and I automatically chuckle as I stand to grab us both another glass of water. She doesn’t realize it, and she might not ever find out, but that brick wall that stood deep inside my chest for years has already started to crumble, and it’s all because of her.
Chapter Fifteen
Colter
“Howlonghaveyoubeen a diabetic?”
Now that Annaliese has had a bath, a good cry over that stupid fucking nickname, and finally some food, I feel ready to ask her about her past.
The food was a battle. It took me giving a mild threat to hand-feed her like a baby if she didn’t eat something. I wouldn’t have forced her to eat one of the steaks or heavy ravioli if she was feeling like shit, but this new protectiveness I feel around her wouldn’t subside even the slightest until I knew she had some real food in her stomach.
She’s back on the couch with her arm tucked under the pillow as she lies on her side. Her thick locks have fallen free from her messy bun, the chocolate curls strewn over my couch pillows in the best way.
My body itches to be sitting next to her. My fingers are desperate to touch one of her chestnut curls and twirl it around my finger to find out if it’s as smooth and silky as it looks. I wonder if she’d like that, if her frayed nerves would heal under my touch.
But I keep myself firmly seated on the area of the couch perpendicular to her, torturing myself by watching the steady rise and fall of her breaths as she half dozes.
She opens her eyes more fully and meets my gaze.
“Um … I think I was around three or four.”
Christ, barely out of the toddler stage.
“I don’t remember much from that age. My mom said that I was thirsty all the time. I was potty trained, but went through a spell where I drank so much water and peed all the time that I started to wet the bed. She said it seemed like all of a sudden I got sick and I ended up in the hospital.”
“Do you remember much from it?”
She brushes her head against the side of the pillow. “No, not really. A few hazy memories maybe, but I was hospitalized again around the time I was twelve for elevated blood sugar, and it seems like I remember every detail of that one. Every time I think I do recall something from when I was first diagnosed, I just assume it’s a half-made-up memory mixed with a nightmare.”
A half-made-up memory mixed with a nightmare.
What a way to describe something that’s become such an integral part of who you are.
I couldn’t imagine life with a chronic illness. Besides the occasional cold, I’ve been lucky to basically have perfect health for forty some years. I’ve never had true influenza, pneumonia, or even a bout of food poisoning. I’ve barely been sick, and even in those times where I’m feeling congested or have a scratchy throat, pushing through my day becomes that much harder.
I couldn’t fathom all of the extra work that goes into the most mundane day as a diabetic. All of the calculations, planning, and preparation she has to do to keep herself from crashing or from catapulting herself into risky highs.
“What do you remember from when you were a teenager?”
She ponders the question for so long I almost ask again, or ask something else to change the subject.
“I remember feeling really, really alone.”
She and I both know that hospitals are often in a constant state of chaos. Even on the quietest inpatient unit, the staff are roaming the halls, alarms are dinging, and aides are waking patients up to check on midnight vitals. When you’re hospitalized for high blood sugar, sometimes the checks come hourly, complete with a finger poke. I would assume you’re never truly alone.
But that’s likely not what she’s referring to.
