Jamie’s concern deepened. “I think you should check it now. You’re looking a bit off, mate.” He grabbed my hand and pulled back my sleeve, and I tried to recall the last time I’d glanced at it. The day had been a blur of preparations and excitement for the evening ahead.
“Jesus, Oli, that’s high, right?”
I focused on the numbers—they didn’t seem right—and I blinked at them.
“Oli?” He was off the bed now, cradling my face. “Did you inject for the cookie you ate earlier?”
“I think so… Damn,” I muttered, realization dawning. The cookie tasting. Jamie, Daisy, and Scarlett had spent the afternoon baking, a fun distraction that had turned into an impromptu taste test for me. I’d indulged in a cookie, caught up in the moment and the laughter, and fuck—had I really forgotten to adjust my insulin afterward? That wasn’t me. I was rigidly controlled and I never forgot my insulin. Yet, here I was, so caught up in the prospect of my date with Jackson, I’d let it slip and now my sugar was high and my eyesight was blurring.
I picked up my phone to dial in the insulin, but Jamie stopped me. “How about you check manually as well, yeah?”
Nodding, I retrieved my glucose meter from the nightstand, a sense of unease growing. The girls were used to me pricking my finger and waited for the reading, still discussing blue jeans over black, and I didn’t have to wait long for the reading. The number flashed on the screen, confirming Jamie’s suspicion and the figures on my watch: my sugar levels were high, much higher than they should be.
Fucking great.
Jamie stood up, his expression softening. “Hey, it’s okay. Just dial in what you need now, and you’ll be right as rain by the time Jackson picks you up.”
The girls nodded. “We can help pick your outfit while you take care of that,” Daisy offered, her voice earnest, and yet more clothes came out of the closet.
Jamie patted my arm, then went to a crouch in front of the growing pile, chatting to Daisy about what slacks were, and I administered the insulin, feeling foolish for letting my excitement disrupt my routine. As the insulin began to work, the lethargy started to lift, replaced by a renewed sense of anticipation for the evening, and also regret that I’d fucked up. Any expert would tell me that these things happened, but they didn’t to me. I was an elite athlete, albeit getting on in athlete-years, and the team doc would have a fit if he thought for a moment I was letting real life interfere with my health.
He should try living with diabetes and see what it was like to have it so much a part of life.
I shook off the negatives, and with the crisis averted, Jamie and the girls rallied around me, helping me select the perfect outfit. A newer blue shirt and “nice black jeans” were the unanimous choice, and as I dressed, I couldn’t help but smile at my girls.
“Okay, how do I look?” I asked, turning to face them.
“You look great, Daddy!” Scarlett exclaimed, while Daisy nodded vigorously.
Jamie clapped me on the back. “Jackson won’t know what hit him.” Then, he gathered the girls to him and made a duck face as he captured a selfie with me in the background. I never even had time to pose. He snickered as he pocketed his cell and herded the girls downstairs. A message from him flashed on my phone with the photo and a message a minute later.
Jamie: Don’t make too much noise when you do the walk of shame.
He added an eggplant, and the raindrop emoji, and I shook my head.
Oliver: Fuck off
Jamie: GASP! I’m horrified at your lack of language skills.
Oliver: Fuck off again
At least I was smiling, and the nerves had eased. I hadn’t dated since I’d met Melissa, which was god knows how many years ago, but I couldn’t worry about that now as I checked my bag. Backup insulin, needle, pump, testing kit—all in case the system I was wearing now let me down—phone, wallet, keys. Some days, I wished I could just walk out of the house as I was, but something new—like a date, possibly more physical things—and I had to cover all contingencies. Last in was the small container of Skittles to give me an instant sugar boost if I needed it. Then I was done. It was five minutes to seven, and he’d be here soon.
I didn’t know what to do, so I flopped onto the bed, staring at the photos next to me. It was Melissa and me on our last vacation in Vancouver. She was pregnant with Daisy, and I was holding Scarlett, smiling so damn hard.
“What am I doing?” I asked the beautiful woman in the photo, and I didn’t expect a reply, and I wasn’t sure about an afterlife, but what if she was watching now? “I still love you,” I whispered to the empty room, “but I think you’d like Jackson. He’s all gritty and grumpy and sexy. I’m sorry you’re not here, Mel.” Grief curled in my chest, and I had to breathe through it. “I’m so sorry.”
“He’s here,” Jamie murmured from the door, and I snapped around to face him, almost tumbling off the bed before standing. “It’s okay, you know,” he added, then brushed down my shirt as if I had lint all over it. “She wanted you to be happy.”
I caught his hand, and he didn’t tug it away. “I feel like I’m betraying what we had.”
Jamie hugged me then, this slip of a Brit who seemed to know what to do and when. “It’s not a betrayal when she gave you permission to live and love.”
I nodded, hugged him tight, and we stood back as he casually checked me from head to toe.
“Go get him, Cowboy,” he said in his best approximation of my Texas drawl, which he’d clearly learned from Dallas re-runs because it was horrific.
“You still suck at that accent,” I said in my best upper-class Brit.
