Page 22 of What About Us
Something is beeping. Icrack open an eye and try to focus on where it’s coming from. My eyes feel crunchy and my head hurts. My mouth also feels like it’s full of dust, and my tongue feels thick and dry.
I grope around on my nightstand for my phone, which is the source of the noise, I’ve realized. Two numbers register at once: 1:40 a.m. and sixty. Too low. Way too low.
Too much wine.
I groan and force myself into a half-sitting position, which causes a wave of nausea to hit with a vengeance. I’m used to fighting through high blood sugar. So, having it go this low is a little startling. I rip open my nightstand drawer and fumble my hand around, until I land on a juice box.
I finally unwrap that small-ass straw and jab the pointy end into the aluminum seal, wishing it was my eye. I shove the straw between my lips and gulp the warm apple juice down, quickly emptying the entire box without even opening both eyes.
Flopping back against my pillow in the dark, I drop the juice box onto the nightstand. Another number: fifteen. Fifteen minutes until the room stops spinning and I can go back to sleep.
I haven’t been out long. After I had a little, one-handed reading time, I’d shut off my light and was almost asleep, when I heard the shower kick on in Hudson’s room. He’s always been a bit of a clean freak, but two showers in less than three hours?
Almost as if my thoughts summoned him, I hear a soft knock on my door, and then his deep voice, laced with quiet concern. “Jameson? You ok?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry. Did my alarm wake you?”
He pushes the door open further, but hesitates on the threshold, like he isn’t sure if he should come in. “I thought it was Paige.”
I sit up a little and motion for him to come in. He crosses the room to stand next to the side of my bed. His gray sweats are slung low on his hips and his chest is bare. He’s like a beautiful, guardian angel in the form of my best friend. My chest floods with warmth and I am suddenly very grateful to have him standing in my room.
His hair is sticking up on both sides of his forehead and it makes me smile.
“Cool hair, Wolverine,” I quip.
He reaches up with a half smile and brushes his hand back and forth over his dark hair, making it stand on end everywhere. “How’s that?”
“Much better,” I say, nodding lightly so my head doesn’t spin. “Very Chris Farley.”
His chuckle is sleepy, and his brows come together over hazel eyes as they roam over my blanket-covered body. Finally, he meets my gaze.
“Do you need me to get you something?” he asks. He eyes the bed for a second longer before sitting down on the edge next to my knee.
I shake my head and smile at him. “No, I took care of it.”
“I can help, you know. I may not have diabetes, but I do know a thing or two about it.” I’m usually alone when this happens. So, his teasing tone feels strangely comforting. He really is thebest,best friend.
“Yeah, but can you chug a juice box in your sleep?” I joke.
He laughs, rubbing his jaw, and the sound of his stubble scratching fills the silence.
“Probably not, but Iamawake now. So, if you need something, I can get it.” He pauses and tips his chin in the direction of my phone. “What was it?”
“Sixty.”
His gaze snaps to mine. “That’s low. Really fucking low. How many glasses of wine did you have?” His look is searching, his tone concerned.
“Mm, three. Maybe four,” I say. I don’t remember.
“Jameson,” he admonishes.
“I know, I know,” I say and sigh weakly.
And I do know. Normally, I don’t drink that much because I know that my traitorous liverwillchoose to metabolize all that delicious wine before it will maintain my blood sugar. But I’ve been working so hard for months, getting everything ready for the B&B, and I just wanted to let loose and drink with my best friend. For once, I wish my body could just let me live.
We sit in silence for a couple of minutes, and I start to feel a little better.
“You need to start taking better care of yourself,” he says into the dark. “Don’t need you dying on me.”
