Page 4 of Forever Not Yours

What had I done?

What the hell had I done?

I couldn’t even look at him as I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, a singlefuckthe only word I managed to release.

I had loved him my whole adult life, and this was how I had let it end?

My life had been one long love letter to the man—thisman—who I pushed away.

Love. What a fucking shitshow that had turned out to be.

Hey, back up, back up. That was not quite the plan. I was definitely not supposed to get…to make out with Jakey of all people.

On my stag night.

Oh, fuck off.

Back up. Breathe. The fuck?

My jeans were wet. Automatic hand-washing facilities and all that crap, and now I would have to walk back up there looking like I had somehow pissed the back of my pants. I giggled in frustration because I still couldn’t make my thoughts make sense.

Drink. Yeah. I’d had quite a bit. But I wasn’t totally drunk, and I was coherent enough to realise I had misplaced most of my clothes. Jacket. Phone in jacket. I was patting myself down out of habit looking for it, stumbling up the stairs back to the bar.

Jakey. Nowhere to be found. Jakey knew where my jacket was.

Jakey.

Fuck.

Jake Sawhurst. The guy who had rescued me from what university could have become. He’d been there for me, through thick and thin. Well, we’d had the occasional falling out. I didn’t see him as much these days, but he was still Jake. Dark, tall and scruffy, he always wore the same style of shirt—a little too big, like he tried to wear scrubs in real life too. Everythinghad to be loose or he’d get all antsy. Even his jeans were always a little too big. He wore bad belts, but great shoes, and had the deepest dimples in the universe, even deeper than mine.

Twinsie-dimples. Always made me smile.

Like I was grinning right now, spinning around in a circle trying to figure out which way to go.

And here was security, some bloke all in black telling me to find my clothes.

Fair enough. I was clearly more than a little bit drunk but also sobering up fast, the cascade of the evening hitting me from every angle. The dancing. The drinking. The look on Jake’s face. A mix between amusement and that thing he did with his eyes, almost an eye roll, so familiar after all these years. Then those new things. A different Jake full of heartbreak and anger, always staring at me from somewhere in my peripheral vision.

He’d kissed me.

What the hell, Jakey?

That had been a little bit gay, to be honest. Mates didn’t do that. Now I was giggling again, along with the bartender handing me my T-shirt and my jacket.

Mates. I had no idea where any of them were, but I gratefully slipped into my damp T-shirt, patted around my jacket for my…

Phone. There. FaceID. Straight into the familiar screen as I slapped the device against my arm. Ping. Yeah. I knew. I needed to eat, and I needed to take my meds, and I needed to get a bloody grip before I passed out. I was unstable, and I shouldn’t drink.

Jakey. I needed bloody Jakey, and now he was nowhere to be found.

Mates. Where were the people who were supposed to look after me?

I was supposed to look after myself, being an adult and grown up and all that. I just…preferred to have people around me. I needed people.

I’d been diagnosed with diabetes as a kid. This was my life, and I knew better. I was usually better. The implant on my arm communicated with my phone. The insulin pump on my hip did too, shooting lifesaving shit straight into my veins. My blood sugars, insulin and meds were a constant feature in my life, like imaginary friends who were constantly talking behind my back. Only problem was, they were notnice friends. They messed with me and constantly tried to trip me up, schemed behind my back like the worst of gossip mongers.Oh, Bash hasn’t eaten again. Let’s give him a good slap around the face for that little mishap.

I was diabetic. I was not always good at looking after that part of my life, and I didn’t need this security guy, who was now rudely marching me towards the lift while I was trying to explain to him I was diabetic and needed food and should probably sit down right here and could he get me a chocolate bar of some sort? Some orange juice? It was exhausting at times, all this diabetic stuff, and I tried to educate the poor guy on the way that I had to consciously think about every single thing I ate, calculate for it, and put off leaving the house if my sugar levels were trending low. Always had to have some sort of snack or emergency glucose with me or a plan to buy something if my levels crashed while I was out and about. Today, I hadn’t because Jake had. And now I didn’t have Jake, so could the guy chill? Just a bit? The security guard looked less than impressed with my ranting as he shoved me into the lift.

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