Page 78 of Living at 40

“You know I love you, right?” he says, saying it more openly since his diagnosis.

“I know,” I tease as my heart rips open a little more. “I love you, too, big brother.”

After that, we both remain silent, watching his kids play on the sand with the man I’m in love with, who happens to be one of his best friends.

30

[Autumn]

“God, yes.” Logan huffs into my neck as he hikes me higher against him. “Fuck yes.”

I’m pinned to the back of my bedroom door at the Cottage as Logan drives into me like a man on a mission.

“Oh. My. God.” I stammer as he thrusts into me, feeling like he can’t get deep enough. My legs wrap around his hips, and my back rubs against the door for support. Our position reminds me of our shower sex when we declared no more wall sex in order to keep what needs keeping inside me. Tonight, we just couldn’t wait for the bed.

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles into my neck. “I’m sliding all over.”

He’s working so hard he’s slightly clammy under my palms. Sweat beads on his forehead, and he licks my throat.

“Logan,” I moan, clutching at his shoulder blades, scrambling to hold onto him as we glide together. He’s so slippery. “It’s going to be big.”

He chuckles at the warning, but something’s off about the sound.

“Logan,” I cry out and lower my mouth to suck at his neck, diminishing my scream into his sticky, moist skin. Instantly, Logan follows, spewing into me in a rush, but just as quickly, he pulls out and almost drops me to the floor. My feet catch me, but my knees buckle. Logan steps back, swiping at his face, haphazardly brushing his hands through his hair back and forth.

“Oh God.” I chuckle, exhilarated while weak. I’m a mess, and I lower for my underwear on the floor. I’m still wearing my beach dress, but Logan had tugged off his shirt the second we entered the room. His shorts rested just off his hips. He wasn’t wearing boxers.

“Give me a second,” I breathlessly say, stepping toward the powder room in my bedroom. Glancing over at Logan, I find his eyes are wild, and his coloring has drained from his tan skin to a pale, sickly color. Sweat not only beads on his forehead but also above his lips. He hasn’t made a move to right his shorts.

“Logan?” I question, reaching toward him, but he steps back. He looks at me, but it’s as if he’s looking through me. His eyes wander, a bit rabid, like a trapped animal, and his head twitches. His fingers fist at his side.

“Logan,” I whisper, taking a step toward him, as he shakes his head faster like he’s trying to settle something inside. When I reach out for him again, he swats at my hand, slapping it hard.

“Don’t touch me.” The aggression surprises me, and I stare at him as he stumbles backward. His shorts still dangle at his hip. He knocks into the rocking chair behind him and tumbles to the seat. His hands start to slap at his head.

“Logan. Oh my God.” His diabetes immediately comes to mind. My eyes fall to his pump near his hip, but I don’t know what to do for him. Because he was overweight, he was misdiagnosed as Type 2 diabetes in his thirties. He told me how he has LADA—late autoimmune diabetes in adults. He jokingly called it Type 1.5, but I looked it up and found he wasn’t kidding. In short, his pump regulates the insulin his body needs to function properly.

I scream for Ben and immediately hear little feet running down the hall. Stepping up to Logan, I try to right his pants enough so he won’t be compromised, but he pushes at me. I narrowly miss what would have been a powerful slap.

“Daddy!” Lorna yells, and I turn to catch her before she gets close to her father.

“Do you know what to do?” I work hard to fight the panic coursing through my body as I speak to Logan’s child. “Juice, right? Or candy?”

“He should have sugar,” Lorna states as Ben rounds into my room.

“What’s going on?” He notes Logan over my shoulder and rushes to his friend.

“Lorna, does your dad keep sugar sticks in his pockets?” Ben tries to search Logan’s shorts, but Logan’s swatting at him to stop the effort. Logan is bigger than Ben, and I’m worried he’ll hurt my brother in Ben’s efforts to help.

“He should,” Lorna admits.

“We have Pixy Sticks in the candy jar,” Mila suggests, and Lorna runs down the hallway with Mila following after her.

“We need orange juice for him, too,” Ben states. “And maybe some peanut butter and crackers.”

I stand still, frozen for only a second, as Ben cups Logan’s face with one hand and talks to his friend, who is telling Ben he hates him.

“Autumn!” Ben hollers at me, keeping his eyes on Logan. “Move.”