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To be honest, I’ve been thinking of my tattooed rescuer far more than I should. It’d be easier to be grateful for Shane’s quick thinking and write him off if he wasn’t such an enigma. Delilah quickly identified him as the right fielder for our local MLB team, but I’d been too preoccupied by small details to consider big-picture concepts like Shane’s profession.
Like how he could be gruff and then tender in the same breath. Or how the inked flames licking down his right forearm were utterly distracting, tempting me to fill their empty spaces with paint. Or how mystified I was when I hopped on the back of a racing motorcycle, feeling completely safe the entire time, when I’m not much of a thrill seeker.
The need to properly thank Shane thrums like an incessant drumbeat against my skull, but I keep getting stuck on one important question: what’s the right thank-you gift for the man who literally saved my life and then footed the bill?
A fruit basket, maybe?
Balloons?
The idea of Shane grimacing at bobbing mylar balloons pushes a barking laugh from my mouth.
Maybe I could up the ante and include a singing telegram?
He’d probably hate that.
The idea of poking my grumpy protector sends bubbly joy zipping to the tips of my toes. The only setback to this train of thought is that I’d want to see Shane’s reaction in person. I’d want to witness that tight flex of his neck muscles, the bunch of his copper eyebrows. My mind swan dives into what it would be like to talk to him again, to reexperience the playful back and forth that seemed effortless.
I shake my head at the ridiculous thought. Shane’s actions that night couldn’t have been clearer. Even through the haze of high blood sugar, it’s clear he was there to render aid.
That’s it.
Squashing my girlish delusions, I focus on scouring the bathroom sink at the third property I’ve cleaned today. This place is always so tidy I barely have anything to do, but I still give it the same thorough scrub down. All three are located in a luxury condo building in downtown Virginia Beach. Unlike the other properties—one classically chic, the other borderline gaudy—this one almost lacks personality, like the owner hasn’t made it a home yet.
Another major difference is that this property is a breathtaking penthouse. Sitting on the top floor of the tallest building in the city, the entire unit is wrapped with unadorned floor-to-ceiling windows.
Because who’s going to look in at you when you live in the sky?
I whimpered when I first saw it, the light is that spectacular. It bends through the space as the sun shifts in an almost playful way. Add in the fourteen-foot ceilings and I had to physically stop myself from salivating.
My favorite medium is oil, but my favorite canvas size is monumental—larger than eight feet. It’s something I almost never get to work on due to its large scope. What I wouldn’t give to be able to set a wall-sized canvas inside this home and paint to my heart’s content.
My phone beeping in my back pocket distracts me from my delightful daydream. My continuous glucose monitor—or CGM—screams at me via its app. The upside of learning to give myself insulin and keeping my blood sugar out of dangerously high ranges is that I’ve felt so much better this week. My thirst is curbed, I feel less foggy, and I have the energy of a brand-new puppy.
The downside is I feel like I’m latched to a rollercoaster against my will. I’m hyper-aware of the ups and downs of my blood sugar, overanalyzing every sensation. My shaky hands pull out my phone to see what I already suspected—low blood sugar.
After hours of working on my feet—and sometimes, my hands and knees—it’s no wonder. I cleaned the first two units during daylight hours but didn’t get to this one until early evening. Though it’s almost eleven now, with the city lights fighting the stars for attention, the owner isn’t here. The company I work for has strict rules that employees can only clean when homeowners are absent. I guess rich people don’t like knowing who’s scrubbing their toilets.
I give the counter one final sweep with my cleaning cloth and take my supplies to the kitchen where I left my purse. Setting the spray bottle and cloth next to my mop bucket, I rifle through my bag. Anxiety pistons through my veins when the tube of grape glucose tablets feels suspiciously light.
“Shoot,” I mutter, finding it empty.
I meant to buy more tabs on my drive over but got distracted by a dramatic rendition of “One Day More,” belting all the lines with my windows open.
“Maybe…”—I glance around the palatial kitchen—“maybe the gazillionaire who’s on a business trip won’t mind if I borrow a little juice?”
After swinging open the refrigerator door, I survey the contents. The doors are covered with protein shakes and bottles of water. Tidy storage containers filled with prepared meals cover the left side, while the right side looks more like my fridge—random bags of veggies, fruits, eggs, jars of condiments, and…bingo! Orange juice.
It only takes a few minutes of digging in the cabinets to find a Pyrex measuring cup. After pouring four ounces of juice, I chug it straight from the glass.
My phone rings as I’m setting a timer for fifteen minutes—the time I’ll need to reevaluate if I need more juice.
“Hey there, Delilah,” I answer with a smile, quoting the song title as often as I can.
“How’s my favorite insulin-dependent legend?” she asks, not skipping a beat.
“Should you be saying that? Your husband has T1D.”
The unexpected blessing of having Adam available for questions—when I don’t want to pester my endocrinologist more than I already have—makes me deeply grateful. Delilah is also incredibly knowledgeable, having been there when Adam was diagnosed two years into their marriage. She offered to follow me on my CGM app, but I drew the line at having my best friend worrying about my health when she also has a full-time job and an eight-year-old daughter to take care of.
