Page 54 of The Ex Puck Bunny
My phone beeps, alerting me in a very specific way. My blood sugar is off, which is probably why I was entertaining the notion of Heidi . . . and me.
She turns off the water. “Everything okay?”
Yeah. Hopefully. I feel a little heady and it’s not onlybecause Heidi is smiling. She is pretty. Incredibly pretty . . . and wearing an expression of concern.
She tips sideways. No, it’s the world. Scratch that. It’s me.
My blood sugar is crashing and the app is letting me know.
I didn’t time my insulin right today. But I do have glucose in my truck. I bump into the wall in the hallway as my vision blurs.
“Grady, are you okay?”
“Your mother’s carrot cake was a little too delicious and I shouldn’t have eaten the second slice.” The words slur slightly.
She searches my face as if trying to make sense of that and then her eyes widen, remembering something.
“Grady, sit down. I’ll go get you some soda. That’ll help, right?”
I slide down the wall as embarrassment pricks my awareness.
Speaking low, what she says filters toward me.
A booming male voice replies, “I’ll be right there.”
Then there’s the crack of an aluminum can before everything starts to fade.
My arms and hands become so weak, that there’s no way I’d be able to get a bolt off, not even with the correct socket wrench fitting. I try to grasp the soda can, but it slips through my fingers.
She brings it to my lips and tips it upward. I take a few big sips and everything slowly shifts back into hazy focus.
“What can I do?” she asks.
I scrub my hand down my face. “Forget that this happened. Don’t think less of me.”
She tucks her chin. “Grady, why would I do that?”
I gesture to myself. “The fact that I’m sitting in your hallway like I had one too many drinks, for starters. I’m sure you see enough of that at the Fish Bowl.”
Despite my fogginess and my appreciation for the popcorn and Stuffed Potato Skin Pucks at her uncle’s establishment, I’d rather she not work there. I want her to be able to spend more time with Bunny and not have to hustle. A voice in my head says that won’t be with me. I’m not good enough—as displayed by this stupid weakness I’ll never be able to escape.
Another voice, this one audible, says, “Get off the floor, loser.”
A figure looms over me and then crouches down. Derek slides his arm under mine and hoists me to standing. He leads me to the couch and makes sure I lie down.
Derek says, “Good. You didn’t change your password.”
He must be on my phone. “Looks like your levels are back in the safe zone. But take another sip, just to be sure.”
I forgot that Derek knew the protocol, no less how to operate my app.
Slowly sitting up, I say, “Thanks, and I deserved you calling me a loser.”
“Yeah, because you weren’t minding your sugar.”
Talk about tough love.
Derek meets my gaze and grips my shoulder. “You alright?”
