ONE
JACKSON
My phone vibrates on the charger beside my bed, but I’m too tired to move.My alarm already?It feels like I just went to sleep—what with how out of it I am. And shit, why is it a million degrees in here? I know I turned the fan on before passing out last night.
Summer is going to be brutal.
My phone starts ringing.
I hear it, but my body won’t move. A flicker of unease crawls up my spine. The ringing stops, and then a text comes through. I try to lift my wrist to check my watch, but my arm won’t move. Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I’m low.
I must’ve turned my glucose alarm off last night.Real smart, Jackson.A key turns in the apartment door, echoing in the quiet, and I groan. Here comes my six-foot-two knight in shining armor, just to keep me alive.
Andres.
The refrigerator opens and slams shut. A cabinet door follows. Muffled footsteps cross the room, and the mattress dips beside me.
“What am I gonna do with you, Jack?” Andres mutters, more to himself than to me. He probably thinks I’m too out of it to understand. I’m low, but not that low. He rubs my back between my shoulder blades, trying to rouse me.
His hand on my bare skin makes heat crawl over me. “Hmmm,” I grumble.
“Jack.” His voice sounds a little distorted. “Come on, drink this. Your BG is 40. You forgot to suspend your insulin after we got home from the bar.”
Shit. He’s right.
I’ve never been more thankful to share my blood sugar readings with someone.
I grumble again.Okay—maybe I’m lower than I thought.No wonder it’s hard to move.
“Goddammit,” Andres grips my shoulder and flips me onto my back, shoving the straw between my lips. “Drink, Jackson.”
I take a long pull. Sweet apple juice hits my tongue, and my body kicks into survival mode, sucking up the liquid on autopilot. Once all I get is air coming through the straw, I stop.
“Good boy.” He sets the glass down and opens my nightstand drawer, grabbing my kit. The words land somewhere they shouldn’t.
The zipper makes a loud noise, and I start feeling a little better. Words are easier to focus on, but I also feel a little nauseous. Sometimes the juice does that when I drink it too fast or my body just isn’t ready for the sugar. The pop of the test strips container makes my lip twitch a little.
He’s going to double-check to see if my monitor’s accurate. It’s not perfect and can be off, showing that I’m actually higher than what I am. Andres reaches for my hand, isolates a finger,cleans it, and then pokes me. Giving it a firm squeeze, he presses it to the test strip until the meter beeps.
“I swear, you’re not allowed to order your own drinks anymore.”
Like he gets a say.
The meter beeps three times, and he curses under his breath in Spanish. “Mierda. Your BG is 36 on the meter, Jackson.”
“Give—give it,” I whisper, but can’t finish the sentence.
“I know, give it fifteen minutes. But eight ounces of juice isn’t going to bring you up that much.” He gets up and heads back to the kitchen.
He cares.
Andres takes the time to make sure he is up-to-date and current with where I’m at with my type 1 diabetes. I’m pretty sure he knows me better than I do, and I’ve been a type one since I was thirteen years old.
I open my eyes. My vision’s only slightly blurry—progress. The problem is I feel like I’m gonna be sick. “Dre,” I moan… not in the hot way. More in theI’m-about-to-barfkind of way.
