Chapter Four
Quinn
I t’s only been two days since I had my labs done and saw Dr. Phillips, yet I’m already back in her office, staring at the painting of one of Peach Beach’s piers hanging on the other wall. It’s one of the pieces I’d done in high school for a contest the office had. One of the last paintings I’d completed before Dad had been killed and my life had come to a screeching halt. I haven’t picked up a paintbrush since.
As I stare at the painting, I can’t help the foreboding feeling that it’s getting ready to happen again. My fingers tremble as I twist them together in my lap, trying not to worry, but it can’t be good news since the office called me yesterday evening and asked if I could come in first thing this morning instead of my planned follow-up in two months. Now, I regret not setting up my online patient portal so I could see my lab results for myself. When I asked the nurse if she could give me the results over the phone, she said Dr. Phillips would prefer to discuss them in her office. Tapping my foot, I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to squelch my nerves. I don’t know if I’m more frustrated because my morning got interrupted for something that could easily have been told to me over the phone or because I’ve now had to pay for two office visits and lab work in three days’ time.
Nausea rolls over me. Hopefully, whatever is going on is an easy fix, and I won’t have to be out more money. I can’t be. It’s probably nothing. Maybe I just need to pop some Vitamin D or B. That would make sense with how tired I’ve been.
The door opens and a nurse sticks her head out, eyes scanning the waiting room. “Ms. Jones?”
With wobbly legs, I stand and follow her into the back. After checking my vitals, she leads me to a room and asks a few questions.
“Okay, Dr. Phillips will be in shortly.”
“Thank you,” I reply in a quiet voice, trying to force my mind to focus on anything else besides the sterile white walls closing in around me.
Deep breaths , I tell myself.
Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for Dr. Phillips to knock and enter the room.
“Good morning, Ms. Jones,” she says cheerfully as she takes a seat in front of her computer. “Thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
I mumble a reply, clasping my hands together to keep the panic from taking over.
Dr. Phillips must sense my unease. “Well, I guess I’ll get right to it. Based on your blood work and symptoms, it appears you have Type 1 diabetes.”
My vision tunnels as I try to blink it away and absorb her words. Diabetes? I couldn’t have heard her correctly.
“What?” My voice shakes as I stare dumbfoundingly at Dr. Phillips. “I don’t understand. I eat healthy and exercise. This can’t be right.” Tears build in my eyes, and I blink rapidly to keep them at bay.
Dr. Phillips gives me a sympathetic smile. It does nothing to reassure me. “I know. This isn’t anything you’ve done wrong. We don’t know what causes it.”
“But I’m not overweight,” I reply with a hint of urgency.
Dr. Phillips nods and leans forward. “Weight isn’t a factor with Type 1 diabetes. It’s an autoimmune disease, and there may be some genetic factors, but we honestly don’t know as much as we want to about it.”
My brow scrunches. “I thought only kids got Type 1?”
“It is most common in children and teenagers. However, it can develop at any age, and as frustrating as it is . . . we don’t know why.” Dr. Phillips holds out her hands with a shrug.
“Okay,” my voice wobbles as I nod. “So, what? I take some medicine, eat healthier, and increase my exercise?” I’m not sure how I can eat any cleaner or increase my exercise without losing more weight, but I can figure this out.
Dr. Phillips sighs, and I dig my hands into the edge of the examination table, waiting for her to respond. “While eating healthy and exercising is important, you’re already losing weight, Quinn. We don’t want you losing any more. I’d actually like to see you gain a little. As far as medicine, unfortunately, since your pancreas isn’t producing insulin and your body needs it, you’ll have to take insulin shots.”
My stomach twists into hundreds of knots. “I hate shots,” I mumble pathetically.
“I know, Quinn, and I’m so sorry this is where we’re at. But with proper medication and a healthy lifestyle, this can be manageable. I’m here to make sure that happens. And I’m also going to refer you to Dr. Maynard. He’s an endocrinologist over in Berry Bush. I can help get you started, but you’ll need to see Dr. Maynard as soon as possible in order to make sure you’re on the best treatments.”
Dr. Phillips flips through some papers and hands them to me. I take them with shaking hands. “Now, this is a diet plan that should help you keep your sugar levels more stabilized. Look through it and let me know if you have any questions. There is an exercise regimen there as well. I know you told me that you like running, which is wonderful, but we don’t want you to lose any more weight. There is some early research that suggests building muscle could help more with this type of diabetes. I recommend increasing your weight training.”
Flipping through the papers, my mind whirls as my world turns upside down. Pushing back a strand of my black hair, I level a look at Dr. Phillips. “I can’t afford all of this.”
Dr. Phillips purses her lips thoughtfully. “I understand you don’t have insurance and the medication can be expensive, but it isn’t as expensive as it once was.” She pauses and sighs, her eyes locking with mine. My heart drops at the severity of her gaze. “Quinn, if you don’t take the insulin and get your blood sugar into an acceptable range, it will kill you eventually.” The gravity of the diagnosis settles over me like a heavy blanket as I grapple with what this means for my future.
I leave the doctor’s office with a stack full of diabetic information, an appointment with Dr. Maynard tomorrow, a two-week supply of insulin, syringes, a glucose monitor, glucose test strips, and Dr. Phillips’s words clinging to me. Opening the door to my beat-up car, I collapse into the driver’s seat. Tears fall and I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, giving them full rein.
God, why? Why is this happening? Haven’t I been through enough?
I know it isn’t right to question God, but everything just seems so heavy at the moment. Another tear escapes as I try to remind myself that God is working in all things, even when I can’t see it.
A bitter chuckle escapes. “I definitely don’t see the good in this, God. Help me to trust You.” I wipe my fingers under my eyes, drying my tears.
Starting the engine, I drive to the housing center where I work. My co-worker, Carly, and I started volunteering around the same time and became quick friends. We’re both full-time employees now, and though the pay isn’t much since the center depends on donors, the work is beyond rewarding.
Besides the pay being on the low end—the very low end—I also don’t have a health insurance policy. I’d attempted to get one through the healthcare market, but none of them were any better than if I saved the money to pay the doctor out of pocket. AKA, I can’t afford either option.
The weight of my finances is enough to send me crumbling into a wave of panic. I’m helping Mom pay off the house, and we’re still paying off some of Dad’s hospital bills from the accident. Mom is the head waitress at the Peach Beach Restaurant—real original name, I know. Together, we make enough to cover the bills, pay for Miles’s and Grayson’s hockey gear, and put money back in savings for their college funds—but barely. We also have a small emergency fund, but it seems as if we dip into it every month for some reason or another.
Taking deep breaths and wiping the remaining tears from my eyes, I park in the employee side of the center’s parking lot. I sit there, needing a minute to collect myself or Carly is for sure going to drill me over what’s going on. Not to mention all the residents.
The young men and women at the Peach Beach Housing Center—we are really bad at names in this town—have my heart, and I love spending time with as many of them as possible. Listening to their stories. Being a shoulder to cry on. Celebrating their victories when they graduate from the program and can enter the world, fully equipped and independent.
Grabbing my purse, I open my car door and hear an “umph” sound. Startled, I look up to find a man bent over, holding his head. Recognition hits me. Oh no. I scurry out of the car and come over to his side.
“Oh, Bram. I am so sorry. I didn’t see you there.” I hesitate, then reach out a hand to touch his arm. “Are you okay?”
He straightens and rubs his forehead. “Yeah . . . just peachy,” he retorts lightly. When he moves his hand, I spot a trail of blood on his face and inhale sharply.
“You’re not fine, Bram. You’re bleeding.” Reaching into my purse, I grab a tissue and press it against the cut. He hisses through his teeth, his jaw clenching. I drop my hand. “I’m sorry. Am I making it worse?”
Plucking the tissue from my hand, he presses it over the cut without answering my question. “What’s wrong, Quinn?”
“Wh-what?” I just hit him in the head with my car door and he’s asking me what’s wrong? Maybe I hit him harder than he’s letting on.
Motioning to my face, he replies, “I came to check on you. I saw you pull in, and you looked upset.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I bite my lip to keep from spilling all my troubles on him. He’ll listen and offer his advice. But I need to handle this on my own. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
He snorts. “You’re not fine.”
“Says the man who’s bleeding.”
“Says the woman who caused the bleeding.”
“I promise I’m fine, Bram. I need to get to work.” I start to slide past him but glance up, my forehead wrinkling. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“We’re doing some updates to the housing center,” he points toward the building and the construction crew I’d failed to notice before.
“Oh.” I’d completely forgotten one of the wings is being remodeled. My eyes flick to him again, and I notice the tissue is covered in blood. “Come inside and let me look at that.”
He waves a hand. “Nah. I’m sure it’s fine.”
“Bram.” My tone is laced with warning.
Chuckling, he concedes. “Okay, okay. If you insist.”
“I do.”
He follows me into the building, and I lead him into the front office where I work most days. Carly raises her head, a smile on her face until her gaze falls on Bram. Her eyes widen, her lips turning into a smirk. She starts to say something, but I shake my head discreetly. She gives me a look that clearly says, “We’re going to talk about this later.”
“Don’t mind us, Carly. I just need to help him clean this up.” I motion to the gash on Bram’s head.
“Ouch,” Carly says when she notices Bram’s head. “I hope it doesn’t need stitches.”
“It’ll be fine,” Bram says.
My eyes shoot daggers at him. “Just sit down.” He does as I command while I grab the first aid kit and set to work doctoring his face. Grasping his bearded chin, I maneuver his head until it’s tilted at just the right angle for me to clean the blood trailing down his straight nose and across one cheek. His skin is warm beneath my fingertips. Up this close, I notice flecks of deep blue in his normally gray eyes, which are framed by thick, dark blond lashes. Thankfully, the cut isn’t as deep as it first appeared.
“Oh, Quinn, don’t forget that you rescheduled your cooking class for today at two.” Carly shuffles through her papers. “And a couple of residents want to know if you can stay late to help them study.”
“Yeah, that should be fine,” I reply, gently washing off the blood that’s already drying on Bram’s forehead and in his dark blond hair. Mom is working late tonight, but I’d put soup in the crockpot before leaving for the doctor. Surely, Lois will be capable of serving a pre-made meal for supper.
“Hey, Quinn, did you hear the news?” a voice asks from the doorway. I glance up to see one of our residents, Riley, standing there with a beaming smile.
“Did you get the job?” I ask, praying she did.
Riley nods enthusiastically. “Yes! I couldn’t have done it without your help, Quinn. Thank you so much.”
I smile at the younger woman. “I just helped with your resume. But you sold it with your amazing, cheerful personality.” Riley blushes before ducking out.
Turning my attention back to Bram, I find his steel gray eyes studying me. “What?” I ask, my nose wrinkling.
Bram shakes his head. “Nothing. I guess I’ve just never seen you at work.”
“Yeah, I guess you haven’t. It’s a great place to work.”
He hums in response. I dab the antiseptic onto Bram’s temple and am placing the bandage on his head when I spot someone out of the corner of my eye. “Don’t think you can sneak by me, Marcus,” I call out, turning to face the door.
Marcus pokes his head in, a sheepish grin on his face. “Wouldn’t think of it, Quinn.”
“Did you finish your paper?” I start packing up the first aid supplies while Bram is glancing between Marcus and me.
“Uh . . . mostly.” Marcus scratches his neck, his ears turning pink.
I narrow my eyes. “Meet me in the study in twenty minutes. We’ll see where you’re at.” Marcus sighs and disappears around the corner. I turn back around to Bram. “Okay, I think that should do it.”
Bram stands and smiles. “Thanks, Q.” He glances toward the doorway where Marcus had just been. “Seems like you do a lot here.”
Shrugging, I brush off the compliment. “It’s not a big deal. I love working here.”
“The work suits you. Thanks for cleaning me up.”
“I mean, it’s the least I could do after hitting you.”
Bram chuckles. “I guess I’ll probably see you around since we’ll be working here for a bit.”
“Sounds like it,” I say, walking him to the door.
Bram stops me with a light touch to my arm. “Q, I meant what I said the other day. You’re like family to me. If you need something all you have to do is ask.”
I relax and give him a shaky smile. “I know. Thank you, Bram.”
As I turn to walk away, I can feel Bram’s eyes on me. He isn’t buying my act. I just hope he doesn’t keep pushing.
When I walk back to the office, Carly looks up from where she’s sifting through a mountain of donor forms and lifts a quizzical brow. “Who was that gorgeous man you almost knocked out with your car door and then doctored up without properly introducing me?”
“Did you want an introduction?”
“To a handsome man? Do you even need me to answer that?”
I laugh and pull my long hair into a messy bun on top of my head.
“Well?” Carly is staring at me, but my mind has already drifted back to my conversation with Dr. Phillips. Did Carly ask me something?
“Well, what?”
“Who was he?”
Oh. She’s still hung up on Bram. Carly works here but lives in Berry Bush, so I sometimes forget she doesn’t know everyone in Peach Beach like I do. I wave a dismissive hand. “Oh, that’s Bram. He’s a family friend.”
“Can I be his friend?” she asks, fanning herself with her hand.
Slapping her arm playfully, I chuckle. “You behave yourself, Carly.”
“Why? Is he taken?”
I tilt my head at her question. “No. At least, I don’t think so.” Shrugging, I pick up the schedule of activities for the day. I do a variety of projects at the center, from budgeting classes to cooking classes to helping the residents with their resumes. Anything that will assist them once they move out on their own. “I’ve not seen him with anyone. And he’s never brought anyone when he comes over.”
“Wait, wait, wait. Comes over? As in, to your house?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes light with realization. “He’s one of the Baxter brothers that you’re always talking about?”
My brow arches. “Yes,” I draw out.
“You mean to tell me that hunk of a man has been coming over to your house and you haven’t snatched him up?” Carly plants her hand on her hip, her jaw hanging open in disbelief.
I shrug again and laugh. “I’ve known him for years, Carly. He’s pretty much part of the family.”
“I’d like to be part of his family,” Carly mutters, peeking through the blinds as if she can catch a glimpse of him again.
“Carly . . .” I chuckle.
She throws up her hands. “I’m just saying if I were you, I would have been throwing myself at his feet a long time ago.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Bram? Um . . . no. That would be like dating my brother.”
“If you say so.” Carly takes a seat in her chair as I gather my clipboard and get ready to make my rounds.
The construction crew appears to be settling in to work. As I walk down the hall, Bram waves. I lift my hand, holding back a chuckle. I wonder if I should tell him about my conversation with Carly.
No. Probably better to keep it to myself. It’s not like it matters anyway. The idea of Bram and me together is one of the craziest things I’ve ever heard.