I offer him a tight smile. “After her health scare a year ago, she decided to retire from the shop and move into Meadowbrook, Bluebell’s senior living complex. Thankfully, she’s doing much better now.”
Grams has been coming with me to my appointments since I was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes at sixteen, so not having her here has taken some getting used to. She’d still come if I asked, but she has her own health to think about.
My mom had me at nineteen. She met my dad while interning as a receptionist at a law office in Chicago. He was fifteen years older, and when she first told him she was pregnant, he promised her the world. Yet, a few weeks later, after coming home from a long business trip, he changed his mind and didn’t want anything to do with us. My mom never heard from him again and never told anyone his name.
When I was five months old, she came back to Bluebell and left me with Grams, saying she wasn’t ready to take on the responsibility of motherhood. The last time we heard from her was eight years ago. She was in France, dating a photographer and working as his assistant, while living in a studio apartment above a bakery in Paris.
The ironic thing is that what bothered me most wasn’t my mom leaving. It was knowing that my dad didn’t care enough to have a relationship with me, let alone ever meet me.
Still, I learned early on that Grams was the only family I needed. She’s always been more than enough, and I wouldn’t change that for anything.
“Good to hear your grandmother is doing better,” Dr. Hansen says. His brow tightens as he scans my chart. “Looks like it’s been four months since your last appointment. I’d really like to see that closer to every three.”
I shift on the exam table to meet his concerned gaze. “I’m sorry, Doc. Things have been busy at the shop, and my insurance premiums went up again, so I’ve been trying to stretch out the time between appointments. But lately, keeping my numbers in range has been more difficult, and I knew I couldn’t put off coming in any longer.”
He gives a small nod as he glances at his tablet to review the blood glucose readings I provided to the nurse. “I understand, but coming in regularly is important, especially when you’re having trouble managing your numbers.”
“You’re right.” I admit sheepishly, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “That’s why I’m here now,”
Dr. Hansen glances up at me. “Does your blood sugar tend to spike or drop at certain times of the day or after specific meals?”
I shake my head. “Not really. I’ve been tracking, but they’ve been totally unpredictable.”
“Any unusual fatigue, nausea, or other symptoms?”
“I’ve been more tired than usual, but it’s probably just all the late nights I’ve been putting in at the shop,” I explain.
The semi-annual clearance sale at my vintage shop, Timeless Threads, is coming up next week, so I’ve been working overtime sorting through inventory and pricing items. It’s hard to get much done during the day with customers popping in to dish about the latest town gossip.
There was a time when my friends and I were the subject of local chatter, thanks to Birdie constantly roping us into one of her many animal rescue missions or my so-called reckless driving. I may clip the occasional mailbox or trash can when I’m running late, but compared to Earl, I’m a model citizen on the road.
He’s been Bluebell’s designated taxi driver for the past forty years, driving locals through town and shuttling visitors to and from Silver Saddle Ranch—the only tourist destination around. They have several cabins that book out years in advance, keeping him busy year-round. The trouble is that he drives like he’s racing a tornado and has advanced cataracts in his left eye.
Last year, the town council decided to look the other way when he ran over the mayor’s prized rose bushes. Despite his tendency to confuse the gas pedal with the brake, he’s a fixturein Bluebell, and there’s no replacing him, even if that means the occasional flower bed massacre.
“Charlie.” Dr. Hansen clears his throat as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Is there a chance you could be pregnant? It would explain the recent swings in your blood glucose as well as the other symptoms you’ve been experiencing.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “No way. I’m on birth control, and I’ve only slept with one guy in the past six months. So, unless the moody cowboy has super sperm, there’s no chance I’m having his baby.”
Even as I try to dismiss the idea, a sliver of doubt creeps in.
I haven’t had a period in a while, but that’s not alarming with my irregular cycle. I also missed a couple of doses of my birth control right before Birdie’s wedding because of a bad sinus infection. At the time, it never occurred to me that it could be a problem.
In my defense, sleeping with Heath was an impulsive decision. I threw all caution to the wind for one night of poor judgment with the man I simultaneously can’t stand and find impossible to resist.
Dr. Hansen sets his tablet on the counter and gives me a sympathetic smile. “I understand, but I’d still like to rule it out as a precaution before we explore other reasons for the significant fluctuations in your readings.”
I shrug. “Okay, sure. Let’s do it.”
I’m not expecting him to wheel his stool over to the corner cabinet, pull out a pregnancy test, and hand it to me like it’s standard procedure. It probably is for him, but for me, I’m bracing for hidden cameras to pop out with someone from a prank show to shout, “Gotcha!”
“Oh.” I slowly reach for the test. “You want me to take itnow? I was thinking I’d grab one on the way back to Bluebell, and if it’s positive, have an ugly-cry in a graffiti-covered gasstation bathroom before giving myself a dose of insulin so I can demolish a cherry slushy.” I flash Dr. Hansen a cheeky grin. “You know me. I’m just a touch dramatic.”
He raises a brow, his eyes landing on my tee, which readsI Fight, Therefore I Am, with retro boxing gloves sketched below the words. It was one of the gems I unearthed from a pile of donations someone dropped off at the shop last week and pairs perfectly with my thrifted Doc Martens.
I prefer to wear clothes that reflect my current mood, and this morning I was ready to throw down after arguing with an insurance representative for an hour about why backup insulin and glucagon kits are medically necessary. That was after getting into it with another representative a few months ago about why Dr. Hansen prescribed a new insulin pump. It’s not like I asked for a chronic disease that could land me in diabetic ketoacidosis—or worse, an early grave—if mismanaged.
Dr. Hansen gets up and goes to open the door. “The bathroom’s three doors down on the left. Let Margaret know when you’re done, and we’ll go over the next steps based on the result. If it’s positive, we’ll order a blood hCG test to confirm.”
