Page 54 of Forced Proximity

The world goes black.

Chapter 26

Justin

‘Doc, please, open your mouth.’ I tip the glass to Doc’s mouth, fielding half-hearted slaps against my hands. Come on, come on. ‘Take the juice. Just a little, okay?’ Since she collapsed to my kitchen floor two minutes ago, I’ve tried to get her to drink, but she’s refusing. A drop of liquid slips into her mouth, and she chokes it out.

Shit! My heart flies out of my chest. Doc’s cheeks flame against my palm. I squeeze, force her mouth open and deposit more liquid. Orange juice flies from her mouth as she heaves and chokes. Please take the goddamn juice. I dip my pinkie in the glass then stick it in her mouth. She clumsily, heavy-handedly pushes it away, mumbling something. ‘Come on, Doc. Just a little. You got this, okay?’

Should I feed her with a spoon? Wait, no spoon. Isn’t there something about not using a spoon? Is that for seizures or diabetics? Fuck. I need to call 911. I pat my pockets. Goddammit. I left my phone upstairs. Should I run and grab it? I can’t just leave her, though, right? Think!

I grip her shoulders to hold her upright. How the hell do I get juice into her mouth? My heartbeat roars against my temples. She needs to drink. I dip my pinkie again, set it in her mouth, and she slaps it away again.

Come on, come on! Do something!

Her head droops, her eyes groggy and rolling. This cannot be happening. ‘Please, Doc. Drink the juice.’ I cup her chin, lift the glass and she bites at it.

Shit. Should I try chocolate? Banana? But she’s choking on juice, how the hell will she chew. Think, Justin. Fucking think.

‘Doc.’ I lower my voice, as soothing as I can muster. ‘I’m gonna put my mouth on yours, okay?’ It’s not like I have a syringe, and I’m totally out of ideas. I sip the tiniest bit, hold her cheeks and lean in. I press my lips on hers and transfer the sugar from my tongue to hers. She doesn’t choke. Thank God.

I wait for a second to see if she spits it out or coughs, but she doesn’t. ‘I’m going to do it again, okay?’

Again, orange juice mouth-to-mouth, I pool the liquid on my tongue and open her mouth with my lips. No choking. Good. Again. Pool the juice, open her mouth, deposit the liquid. For the next few minutes, I repeat this action until her eyes stop rolling. A little more and her eyes shift to half-open, which is a step up from half-dead. More liquid. Her cheeks morph from red to pink, and her palms feel less clammy. Finally, her vacant stare upgrades to confusion, and she moans.

It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. ‘Hey, can you take a sip?’ I tilt the cup to her lips. She doesn’t choke, and a jolt of air hits my lungs for the first time in what feels like hours. A little more juice and her pupils stop dilating. Another tiny sip, and she brings her trembling, deadweight hands to the glass. A few more drops, and she pushes against the glass. Another few minutes, and her shaky hands help guide the cup as she takes baby sips.

‘You’re doing great.’

My heartbeat lowers as her eyes start to focus. The prickling at the back of my neck slows, and for fifteen minutes, I monitor her sips. Sweat beads saturate her forehead and upper lip. I run cold water over a towel, hand it to her and slide next to her against the kitchen cabinets.

‘Well, fuck.’ She brings her knees to her chest and places the cloth on the back of her neck.

Oh, thank God. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m good.’ She keeps her eyes on her knees and holds the towel at her neck. ‘Jesus Christ, this is embarrassing.’

I dip my head and try to catch her gaze. ‘It is what it is, but don’t be embarrassed.’

Her chest lifts in an inhale. ‘I know better. I shouldn’t have let myself do this.’

Let herself do this? It was a medical emergency. That’s it. Just like when I got a concussion on the field once, and the impact made me throw up on the thirtieth yard line. Why would she blame herself? I didn’t blame myself when I got hurt. I didn’t even blame the player that hit me.

Food. She needs food. And rest. Should I call someone? A doctor? Maybe she needs insulin or medicine or something? ‘You need more than juice. Let me make you something. Is a sandwich good?’ I don’t wait for a response.

She looks away while slowly drinking, then starts to stand on wobbly legs. Before I can help, she slumps back down. ‘Uh … could you get my backpack from the den?’

Her voice is a hoarse whisper. I sprint to the other room and when I return, she’s standing at the island. She grabs the bag from me, pulls out a device and pricks her finger. There’s something heartbreaking in her motions. She’s still so private about injecting or checking blood, and this is not her being open and comfortable. She’s dejected.

I hate seeing her dejected.

I finish making her food, set down the plate, sit across from her, and try hard to not gawk as she takes a bite. Once she swallows, I exhale.

The sandwich dangles in her hands and she slowly chews. The defeat on her face crushes me. I need to fix whatever thoughts are flooding her mind. I’ve seen her serious before, but nothing like this. Her normally hyperconfident, upright posture is gone. She looks devastated.

The air is heavy. My legs bounce under the island, and I take a shaky sip of water while she continues chewing. I rinse a plate, re-wash the apples I’d already cleaned this morning and wipe the counter. I can’t leave her, not for a second, but I don’t need to make it obvious.

‘Um, thank you for helping me. I can’t believe I did this. I haven’t let myself get like this in years.’ She takes another bite and washes it down with more juice. ‘I’m sorry I was so snappy when I got here. When my blood sugars drop like this, it’s extremely difficult to stabilize my mood.’