Page 56 of Make Me Want it Too

“Test strip. Finger prick,” I say. I’m sleepy.

“Keep your eyes open, Mace. Stay with me.” Wood gets out my device, a new lancet, and testing strip. He even washes his hands like he’s going to do it for me.

I sigh. That’s nice of him. He’s cute. I wish he wasn’t so cute.

“I can do it,” I say, blinking slowly.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve done this every day since I was fourteen. I could do it in my sleep.” Sleep sounds so nice. My head hurts.

Wood seems to be in a rush. I poke my finger and get the blood droplet to come out, but my hands are a little shaky and like slow motion, so Wood puts the strip to my finger to absorb the droplet. He shudders but keeps his eyes open.

The meter beeps and then reads four hundred sixty.

“Oh that’s high,” I say. “That’s not good.” My eyelids are so heavy, and I need to pee and I’m smiling but I don’t know why I’m smiling.

“What’s your ideal level? Was it one-ten?”

I nod. “I think I should take a nap.”

“Not yet. I promise you can later. But you’re hyperglycemic. We have to take care of that first.”

“Hyper—gly—ce—mic. Did you googley that?”

“Did I—did I googley? Yes.” He chuckles. “I did google that. I need you to focus for me, okay?” He leans down and touches my chin. His face is so close I want to boop his nose. Probably shouldn’t, though. That would be weird.

“Each unit of insulin lowers your blood sugar by fifty, right?” he asks.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay.” Wood is already drawing insulin. “So, you need seven units.”

“That was quick math. Are you good at math? I wouldn’t have guessed you’re good at math.”

He smiles as he wipes a little area of skin on my lower belly clean. “I was always good at math, and computers. We can talk more about that later, okay?”

“Okie dokie.”

He pinches the little piece of skin he cleaned, just above the waistband of my black panties. My lacy black panties. Why am I wearing sexy underwear? I have a vague recollection of putting them on last night for a reason but everything feels fuzzy.

It occurs to me that these panties leave almost nothing to the imagination, and I should be mortified, but by the look on his face, Wood is mortified enough for the both of us. Or about to throw up. But not because of my see-through panties, because of the syringe he’s holding.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, taking a shaky breath.

I’m not sure what he’s talking about. Then he pushes the needle into my skin and presses the plunger down.

Oh yeah, yeah. That.

He winces as he takes it out. “Are you okay?”

I nod. Then lie down on the floor. This rug is comfy. How do rich people even have nice bathroom rugs? I’ve slept on mattresses less comfortable than this rug.

“Should I call someone? 911? Should we go to the hospital?”

I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.”

“How long will the insulin take to work?” Wood asks, biting his lip.

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