Page 4 of What About Us
“I’m here anyway.” She harrumphs and opens her door to get out. “Your mom and Wren are probably waiting to start the movie.”
I rub my forehead between my thumb and fingers, squeezing my eyes shut. “All right. Tell them hello for me.”
“Ok, Huddy. Have a good run. Love you.” She blows a kiss at me.
“Love you too, Jameson.”
I switch over to music and Tricky by Run D.M.C. fills my ears. I pocket my phone and take off at a jog. People mill around the park just through the trees and I check the time on my watch. I have an hour to finish my run and get back home to shower before I have to be at my bar, Timber Haus Pub.
Only three more days before I hand over the keys to the new owner and just under two weeks to pack up our lives, before making the thirty-one-hour drive back home to Timber Forge. I’d considered hiring the moving company to drive our stuff to Montana while we flew, but the drive will give me and Paige some time to ourselves before the chaos of family and summer takes off.
Jameson offered her guest rooms, when the place I was planning to rent fell through at the last minute. The inspector found black mold in several rooms. There was no way in hell I was going to put my daughter in that situation. She’d probably grow a third eye or develop black lung or some shit. All she needs is more health problems.
Paige has struggled since her mom Tristen, and I split up two years ago. It started with nightmares and her refusing to eat regularly. She’s been in therapy, and things were looking up, until last summer, when Paige told me how much she wished we lived in Timber Forge. That coupled with her own diabetes diagnosis six months ago was enough of a push for me to make some changes. I’ve come to the realization pretty quickly that if there is ever another emergency with Paige, I have no support here. Without the bar, the cons of staying have started to outweigh the pros.
When Paige had gotten sick at school, collapsing on the playground just before Christmas, I couldn’t get to the hospital fast enough and I spent two excruciating hours pacing that bleak and cold as fuck hallway with no answers and even less hope. If Finn hadn’t been in town, I don’t know howI would have held it together. She spent those two hours in the hospital with me, getting coffee, calling my parents to relay information, and talking me off the proverbial ledge.
That was also when some kind of fucked-up switch in my brain blinked on and try as I might to keep my feelings for my best friend platonic, it wasn’t long before I was seeing Finn in a very different light. Seeing her mother my daughter better than Paige’s own mother ever did had done something to me. Not only was she great with Paige but having her there was a huge comfort to me as well.
We weren’t teenagers anymore and suddenly I started noticing how good she looked in those little sports bras she likes to call tank tops and those biker shorts that are more like underwear. And don’t even get me started on the tank top/panty combo she wears to bed. Or how the chocolate brown of her hair has a little undertone of red in it when the sunlight hits it just right. She’s got a tiny mole just above her lip that I never really paid much attention to before but now is somehow so fucking sexy I can hardly stand it.
I stop to stretch out a cramp in my calf before turning around and heading back to the condo when a text comes through from Paige letting me know she’s home. I’ll have just enough time for a shower before heading back out for the night.
Chapter 2
Finnley
The alarm for myglucose monitor beeps obnoxiously into the silent kitchen. I scowl at my phone from where I’m sitting at the island, head in my hands. I’ve been sitting in this position for the last fifteen minutes, staring at my bank account. Either I have royally miscalculated my spending for the month, or I’m a business owner in the first months of operation. It’s absolutely both.
My glucometer beeps again.
“Shut up,” I say and silence the alert. I know the numbers on the readout are an accurate reflection of what my body needs, but I’ve been diabetic for what seems like one-hundred years, and even though I have been rationing my insulin—hello, minuscule bank balance and shit insurance—I know I’m fine. At least for a while longer.
With a sigh I feel all the way to my toes, I shut the lid on my laptop a little more forcefully than necessary and stand. Crossing the kitchen, I open the fridge and pull out the plastic container I use to store my insulin pens.
There was never a worry about rationing insulin when I was married. I’m not bitter, and I’m not sad we’re divorced. But Jeff had great insurance,and between his trust fund and his position with his father’s steel manufacturing empire, he had more money than God.
One divorce, a busted insulin pump that is out of warranty, and one horrible insurance policy later, every single month is a concerted effort to make sure I balance everything just right, so that I don’t put myself into a coma and drop dead from ketoacidosis.
I’m being dramatic. Mostly.
I can’t afford the premiums for anything better right now. So, I carry my shitty insurance like a chump and pray I never have to use it. But unless I need major surgery or lose a limb, it isn’t much use to me anyway.
I know rationing insulin isn’t ideal—dangerous, even—but in an ideal world, my body would function properly on its own and I wouldn’t be a mid-thirties divorcée. I would also be a five-foot-nine millionaire with a full C cup and legs for literal days.
After adding the needle to the pen, I twist the dial to two-thirds of my typical dose and check my phone one more time. I wait a few minutes before injecting myself, so the cold insulin doesn’t burn like a bitch.
There’s the rumble of a truck outside, and then a soft knock at the door as I push the needle into my abdomen and inject the insulin.
“Come in!” I call. I remove the needle and recap the pen, tossing it back into the container on the counter. I throw away the alcohol wipe and put the insulin back into the fridge just as my friend Wrenley comes waddling into the kitchen, preceded by her pregnant belly.
“I have to pee so bad!” she exclaims, setting her purse on the counter and rushing past me and down the hall to the bathroom.
“Two babies taking up residence on your bladder will do that to a girl,” I call after her.
Her answering,“That ain’t no shit,” is muffled by the sound of the bathroom door closing behind her.
I load my dinner dishes into the dishwasher and turn to slide the pizza box across the counter just as Wren comes into the kitchen.
