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“It was an artist residency with a local hyperrealist painter. Her work is primarily of waves and water, but unfortunately, she received a cancer diagnosis right before I was to start with her.” Willow’s expression softens. “But don’t worry, Nina is doing great. The chemo seems to be working.”

“That’s good,” I say, actually meaning it.

Willow grins at me before startling like she forgot something.

She pulls her insulin pen out of the cardigan’s pocket and then freezes. “Oh, I’ll go to the—”

“It’s fine.”

“It won’t gross you out?”

“Nothing about you grosses me out.”

The husky sentence escapes before I remember I’m trying to keep my distance.

Willow blinks, stunned for a second.

“Do you want me to look up the carbs?” I ask to distract her.

In addition to having Gabriel create delectable meals this past week, I had him provide nutritional information for each serving in a shared e-doc. It’s a pretty standard request, especially for athletes tracking macros, but I wanted Willow to be certain of each carbohydrate she ate.

“No. I looked it up before you came in. I just forgot to give myself insulin.”

My chin dips in a nod. I should look away, give her privacy perhaps, but I’m oddly curious. As a kid, I never saw this side of Bryce’s T1D. At first, he had to go to the school nurse for his insulin. Later, he handled it himself, always ducking into a private spot so the jackwads in our grade couldn't turn it into a joke—or worse, accuse him of being weak.

Willow blows her bangs out of the way before dialing her insulin pen to the right number and lifting her shirt. The narrow band of exposed skin over her belly button snags my attention and holds it in a vise grip.

Stop staring, I tell myself. She’s giving herself vital medicine.

When Willow pinches her skin and inserts the needle, I want nothing more than the hundreds of thousands of dollars I’ve sent to the research institute to yield immediate results. Beautiful, charismatic, hopeful Willow shouldn’t have to stab herself multiple times a day in order to live.

“Does that hurt?”

It’s a stupid question. Of course it hurts. And it’s not like I’ve never felt a needle stick before.

She shrugs. “You get used to it. My endocrinologist says I can transition to a tubeless insulin pump after a few months.”

“Is that something you’d want?”

“Maybe.” She smiles, but it wobbles at the edges. “I’m still figuring things out.”

I draw in a deep breath, telling myself not to say anything.

“What can I do?”

My question is too low and earnest…too vulnerable.

“You’re doing it.”

The soft grin she offers me feels more impactful than hitting a walk-off at the World Series.

Something about the moment hums with its own vibrational resonance before Willow breaks the trance by tucking her burrito to her chest and backing out of the room with a playful wink.

“Meet you at the elevator in twenty minutes. We’ve got a long day of shopping ahead of us.”

I groan for Willow’s benefit, but internally, my heart is skipping like a darned schoolgirl.

Chapter 19