There won’t be any more texts. The whole GTG is him signing off.
Jesse’s car is outside when I arrive, and although Noah hasn’t come right out and said someone is watching the house, I see the same guy who has been there every time I come over.
Jesse opens the door and welcomes me inside. We’ve always had a good relationship before now so I hate that he is looking at me differently.
“I’ve made dinner,” he says. “Lasagna.”
“Smells great.”
“It’s Oscar’s favorite.”
“Can I help?”
“Most of it’s done but you can help with getting us some bread.”
We work together in silence, the only noise is Oscar playing in the other room. He greeted me when I first came in but his little baby laptop has him fully occupied.
There is still no sign of Noah after we’ve eaten and Jesse tells me not to overthink it. Sometimes this happens, and he doesn’t get home when he says he is going to.
“I know you have your concerns about me and Noah,” I say, after I’ve cleaned up Oscar’s face and put him down. He runs over to get his puppy and starts pretending it’s real.
“You have to know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Thank you, and I do,” I lean forward on my stool. “You see the good in him too Jesse.”
“You really don’t know the bad. How he gets sometimes.”
“I can handle it.”
He rubs his forehead and sighs. His skin looks a little clammy.
“Have you had your insulin today?”
“Of course, you know I take it properly, Taylor.”
“Jesse, you’re sweating.”
“Don’t be anursewith me,” he gives me a smirk.
“Where is your glucometer? Are you having any abdominal pain, or feeling nausea?”
“Taylor, I’m fine. I’ll grab some juice.”
“I’ll get it, you get your kit.”
Noah keeps a steady supply of the juice Jesse needs. When I come back after grabbing the juice, he wobbles a little almost spilling the juice. Jesus, I help him onto a stool and hold up the glass. I don’t like his color and he’s getting more disoriented. With long practiced efficiency, I take out the glucometer, set it up with a test strip and quickly wash my hands, checking in on Oscar. No child needs to see this.
“He’s used to it,” Jesse says.
He closes his eyes as he swallows some juice and stays that way. He doesn’t even flinch when I gently prick the side of his fingertip until a small bead of blood comes out then move it onto the test strip. I use an alcohol wipe to clean his hand as the glucometer starts to work.
I keep an eye on him then glance back at the glucometer. “Shit.”
“What?”
“It’s at sixty-four.” I stare at the screen. This can’t be right. His blood sugar is way below seventy and he could go into hypoglycemic shock if we don’t correct this. “You definitely took the insulin?”
He nods and points to the kit, he has always been good at recording his levels and intake. The little book has it written down, and he’s taken the correct dosage. This can’t be right.
