“I . . .”
“I know. You have a boyfriend.” One side of his mouth turned up. He moved back a few inches. “We can be friends though, right?”
“Yes,” I sighed.
“You were crying earlier. Why?”
“I shook my head.”
“Please tell me it wasn’t because of how R.J. treated you?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I just want to forget everything.”
He nodded, looking away for a second. “Are you ticklish?”
“Don’t you dare.”
He laughed. “Well, there is one thing I know . . .”
“What’s that, smart guy?”
He put his hands on my hips again and I let him, even though I knew it was crossing the line. It felt so good, like being enveloped in warmth and security.
His mouth turned up into a knowing smile, and then he said, almost wistfully, “Just being your friend is going to be hard, but I’ll try. It’s just that . . . I like you. You’re witty and sweet, and you happen to be the most infinitely beautiful woman I’ve ever met.” I sucked in a startled breath. He paused, looking all drowsy with desire before opening his mouth to speak again.
“Don’t,” I murmured.
“It’s not hyperbole, Katy. I promise.”
Giggling nervously, I slowly sunk beneath the water, thinking Jamie was out of his mind. I never would have described myself the way he just did.
But then again, I had allowed Stephen to make me feel like I was barely worth coming home to.
Page 5
* * *
Allegory
Slipping my clothes over my wet undergarments, I turned away from Jamie as he lifted himself out of the water from the side of the pool. He got dressed quickly, and when I turned back toward him, he was sweeping up his sopping boxers from the ground and wrapping them in a towel. No qualms about commando. I like it!
“I’ll walk you back.”
“Great, thank you, I’m dead-tired.” I was feeling completely bashful after his poetic and sweet confession.
We headed toward the inn.
“I need to stop at my truck for a sec. Do you mind?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
He opened the driver’s side door and then blocked my view. I heard a zipper open and then he was shuffling with something. It was taking more than a second.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“Just one more minute, okay?”
Being the curious person that I am, I stood on my tippy-toes and leaned over to see what he was doing. He turned around abruptly, holding something behind his back.
“What is that?”
“Nothing, it’s not a big deal,” he said, nervously.
“Let me see.” It was at least ten full seconds before he finally held his hand out, revealing some sort of syringe.
My mouth dropped to the ground. “Are you . . . are those drugs?”
“No. Well, yes, but not what you’re thinking.”
“What is it then?” We were both hesitant.
“It’s insulin.”
A breath rushed from my mouth. “You’re diabetic?”
“Yes, type one.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be. I’ve been this way for a long time.”
“Were you embarrassed to tell me?” I asked gently.
“No, I just didn’t want to burden you with it, and I have to give myself this shot now. I didn’t know if you’d be squeamish.”
“Not at all.” I started getting misty-eyed. “That would never be a burden to me, but thank you for the consideration.” At the age of eight, I’d had to play nurse to my mother while she was dying, her body wracked with cancer. At twenty-five, I watched Rose, the only other person I’ve ever loved, get eaten alive by a plague-like bacteria she’d picked up in the hospital after her gallstone surgery. There were few things that could nauseate me.
He was still holding the syringe and looking into my eyes. “I’m gonna do this now, okay?” And then he smiled sweetly. I nodded. He took the needle cap off with his teeth, holding it in his mouth while he lifted his shirt on the left side. My eyes were drawn to his beltless jeans, hanging low on his waist. His stomach was thin and defined and angled in that way that encourages your eyes to continue looking downward. When I glanced up, I noticed his gaze was focused on the penlike syringe. He pressed something on the bottom and a tiny drop of insulin bubbled at the needle tip. The air was suddenly filled with a very potent, medicinal smell. And then, as if he had done it a million times, he pinched a chunk of his skin just above his hip and jabbed the needle into it. I caught a tiny wince flash across his face just as the needle hit the skin. He pushed the button on the bottom of the pen and then quickly pulled it out and replaced the cover using his mouth. He was still holding up his shirt.
“Shit,” he mumbled.
“What?”
“I hit a blood vessel.”
“Oh my god, what does that mean?” I said, suddenly frantic.
He chuckled. “Nothing, sweet girl, it’s just a little blood.” He was looking around for something. I looked down and noticed he was bleeding from the injection site. It was thinly streaming toward the top of his jeans. Spotting our wet towels on the hood of the truck, I quickly grabbed one and bent to carefully wipe away the blood.
“Whoa, what are you doing, Kate?” There was a touch of amusement in his voice.