They exchanged numbers and Aaron put a hand on Emmett’s arm. His flesh prickled with the memory of that night outside the house party.You are so fucking cute.
“We’ll talk soon,” Aaron said. “See you later. Enjoy the film!”
Emmett and Lizette exchanged a smile as they turned and left the museum. “Did you hear that?” she said. “He wants to ‘hook up’ with you sometime.”
“He didn’t mean it like that.”
“You don’t know. Shoot your shot, see what happens.”
“Yeah right. Look at him and look at me. The only thing I’m shooting is myself if I’m not approved for this clinical trial.”
Because as much as he didn’t want his mind to go there, it had already galloped off to the land of fantasy: a few months on, the trial a huge success, weight falling off him like discarded clothes. Emmett would soon be back down to his grad school size, confident enough this time to make the move he hadn’t before. A flirty compliment returned. A stray touch met with a kiss.
Running into Aaron had done something to Emmett. Stirred something bright and aching in his soul. Despite everything telling him not to, he couldn’t help but hope.
CHAPTER 11
The following day it was Emmett’s turn to open. The peacefulness of the nearly empty store almost made up for the early start—that and a chance run-in with Myra, a regular with whom he’d become friendly. He found her in a grocery aisle straining for the top shelf, knees rattling as she gripped her mobility scooter for support. “Let me get that,” Emmett said, hurrying over. “You sit.”
A nod. She lowered herself back onto the seat with a groan of effort.
“How many bottles today?”
“Two please, young man. Nice young man.” She could never seem to remember his name, no matter how often they met like this. “I’m making fish sticks.”
A surprisingly normal combo, he thought. Known among the staff as Cocktail Sauce Lady for her obsession with the condiment, Myra had regaled Emmett on multiple occasions with its many applications—not just on seafood but fries, chicken wings, pork chops, salads, sandwiches, even swigged straight from the bottle. Judging by her frequent visits, she seemed to get through at least four bottles a week. Target wasn’t the cheapest, but her apartment was just across the street.
“Sounds delicious,” Emmett said.
He loaded her up and sent her on her way.
As usual, things picked up around midmorning, keeping him off his phone until he clocked out for lunch. He’d missed a call from Cronus Health, but made out from the badly transcribed voicemail that his blood results were in.
This was it, the big yes or no.
Avoiding the crowded breakroom, he stepped outside where he wouldn’t be overheard. After an overcast morning, it was a perfect day. Palm fronds swished overhead, leafy green against clear azure blue. The call rang three times before a voice answered.
“Hi, I missed a call from Dr. Halleck?”
“I believe he’s with a patient. I can leave a note for him to call you—”
“Can you check please? Sorry, it’s kind of urgent.”
Why was he apologizing? His obesity was urgent enough when they were scolding him for it; why not when he was seeking treatment? Why did he always feel like an inconvenience, a lesser priority than those with “real” medical issues?
The receptionist transferred the call, and Halleck answered on the first ring.
“I’ve only got a minute. Something came up in your A1C results.”
“Which one’s that again?”
“A1C measures your average blood sugar levels over the past three months. A normal A1C level is below 5.7 percent. Anything above 6.5 indicates diabetes. Your A1C came in at—”
A plane flew overhead. Emmett couldn’t have heard what he thought he heard.
“Sorry, did you say—”
“Eight-point-nine,” Halleck repeated.
