Page 136 of Hometown Halftime

The injector pen has been sitting on a paper towel for the last half hour, warming to room temperature the way the instruction packet told me to do. Then I’m supposed to clean the injection site, press the pen firmly against my thigh, punch the button and hold it for ten seconds.

It should be simple, but my hands are shaking.

I wipe the alcohol pad across the top of my thigh before squeezing the skin of my thigh and pressing the injector carefully against my skin. The second it touches me, panic surges through my chest, and I pull it away again.

“Nope.”

My voice comes out thin and shaky in the empty room.

I take another ragged breath and try again, pressing the injector carefully against my thigh. For one brief second, I think maybe this time I’ll actually do it.

Then panic crashes through me all over again, and I pull it away.

I try again. And again. Each failed attempt adds to my frustration until suddenly I can’t pull in a full breath anymore.

“Come on, Kinsey,” I whisper harshly to myself. “Just do it.”

And before I can stop it, I begin to cry.

They aren’t quiet tears either. Full-body, shaking sobs that leave me curled forward on the bed, clutching the injector pen while panic and frustration spiral through my chest.

I hate this. I hate my body. I hate this diagnosis. I hate feeling weak, and I hate fearing something as stupid as a fucking shot.

My chest spasms painfully as I fight for another breath, while tears drip down my cheeks. Then, downstairs, I hear the front door open and shut.

Shit.

I scrub hard at my face, trying desperately to pull myself together before I hear his voice.

“Kinsey?”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Please don’t come up here,” I whisper.

Footsteps hit the stairs a second later.

“Kinsey?” Riley calls again, panic threading through his voice now. “Are you okay?”

And God, the concern in his voice makes me cry harder. The bedroom door swings open so fast that it bounces lightly against the wall.

“Kinsey—”

Riley stops short the second he sees me. And I can’t even imagine what I look like right now. I’m sitting on the bed in nothing but a T-shirt and underwear, crying so hard I can barely breathe, clutching an injector pen.

Panic flashes across Riley’s face instantly. He crosses the room in seconds.

“Baby.” His voice drops, softer now. “What happened?”

Another broken sob leaves my chest before I can answer.

Riley’s eyes flick downward, taking in the medication box beside me and the injector shaking in my hand.

His brow furrows, eyes searching my body. “Are you hurt?”

I shake my head hard, but I have trouble speaking.

“Kinsey, talk to me.”