Chapter Six
Quinn
I tie the ribbon around the mason jar, mustering the energy to complete the task. There is so much to get done before Lois and Chad’s wedding reception, and with Mom working extra hours at the restaurant, most of the organization and decorating has fallen into my lap.
Sighing, I try to push down the frustration of carrying more work on my already weary shoulders. My neck and upper back are tight from working on these darned centerpieces for the last half hour. And where is Lois? At the beach with her husband filming content for her page and magazine column instead of helping with her own reception.
Stop being bitter , I chide myself as I pick up another mason jar. It feels heavier than normal, or maybe that’s my lack of energy lately.
The insulin isn’t helping. At least, it doesn’t seem to be. I’d probably be able to tell if I was actually checking my blood sugar and taking the insulin as often as Dr. Maynard instructed when I’d had my appointment with him.
But when I went to the pharmacy to get my month’s supply of insulin, I about had a heart attack over how much this disease is going to cost me. I can’t afford a couple hundred dollars a month for all of my supplies. And that’s only if they don’t change my insulin to one of the more expensive ones.
I know I should be taking it as instructed, but maybe if I spread the doses out a little more, it will still help keep me mostly functioning.
My chest squeezes as the weight of everything presses in on all sides. I’m going to have to dip into my savings to pay for next month’s supply, but what will happen the month after that?
I can’t think about that right now. It’s too overwhelming.
Since my diagnosis, I’ve been eating healthier, using the guide that Dr. Phillips gave me, along with the information Dr. Maynard shared. I’m exhausted, however, and my energy seems to be dwindling by the day. Fog has taken up permanent residence in my brain. I’m just so tired.
Exhausted. Cranky.
And a little bit angry at life in general at the moment.
I keep it all bottled up inside. Tucked away into the farthest corner. No one likes to hear someone else whining. Instead, I continue to plaster on fake smiles and cheerful expressions and go about my day as if all is right with the world.
To top it all off, Mom took in another foster kid yesterday. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind Mom fostering another child, but it’s one more responsibility slopped onto my compartmentalized tray, disrupting the perfectly distributed weight and causing my tight grip to slip. With my exhaustion and crankiness fighting to take over, I’m not sure how much more I can take. Then again, Mom probably wouldn’t have taken her in if she knew about my diagnosis.
She and I are a lot alike. We both have a heart for foster children and long to do whatever we can to make their lives better. It’s why we both work so hard and why I still live at home and help contribute to the finances. So that Mom can keep fostering.
Whenever a case worker calls and asks Mom if she can take a child, she tells them, “As long as there is room in my heart, there’s room in my home.”
Mom and Dad adopted both Grayson and Miles out of the foster system. We had a big celebration when each of their adoptions had been finalized. Not that they ever needed a piece of paper to tell them they were a Jones. Heck, they’re more of a Jones than Lois.
I sigh thinking of my older sister. Even after a month, I still can’t believe she eloped with a man she hadn’t told any of us about. I love Lois, but sometimes she’s completely self-absorbed.
Does she know or even care how much time and money Mom is spending on this wedding reception? I stretch my stiff neck, glancing around the kitchen table where I’m putting together centerpieces for it. Mason jars, ribbons, and flowers are scattered everywhere.
Mom and Mrs. Baxter had gone all out on their little shopping spree, and I’m sure Gidget—better known as GiGi to all of her friends and family—helped with a lot of the expense. She and Mom have been best friends since we moved here about ten years ago. After that, our families were always together. Whether it was at the Baxters’ large ranch-style home or our smaller home, our two families became inseparable.
A tear slips down my cheek before I’ve even registered that I’m crying. I miss Dad. So much. I miss him being at our combined family events. Even though we still got together regularly, things have never been the same since Dad died. His missing presence is a constant ache deep inside.
Dad had been the life of our home. Always cheerful. Always laughing. Always there. Which makes the pain and guilt from the night he was taken from us all that harder to bear.
Sometimes, I wish I could go back to those lazy summers and weekends and hold on to them just a little bit longer. Hold on to Dad. Even if it meant putting up with the teenage pranks from the Baxter brothers—Cyrus, in particular.
I smile through the tears. Cyrus had done everything to make my teenage years miserable. I’m pretty sure Titus joined in with his brother on occasion—when he wasn’t pranking Cyrus himself—but Cyrus had been the ring leader in all the shenanigans. Whenever Cyrus was about to pull something, he’d get this little smirk on his face and an evil glint in his eyes.
Julie and I were able to get the upper hand on the Baxter boys every now and then. Those were fun times.
The memories from those days are bittersweet.
Everything was simpler then. Dad was still with us, I didn’t have Type I diabetes, and that Lois would have never sprung a husband on us. Well, I’d like to think not.
I set down the centerpiece I’ve been working on and rub my neck. I would give a month’s worth of paychecks for a back massage right about now. Oh yeah, I don’t have a month’s worth of paychecks. Not with my new diagnosis.
A low grunt escapes my lips as I rub at the kink in my neck, pressing and prodding in an attempt to loosen it up.
Someone chuckles behind me, and I almost jump out of my seat. Whipping my head around, I see Cyrus leaning against the door frame, his bulky arms crossed over his chest. Blond locks fall across his forehead as his gray eyes dance with laughter.
“You know, if you wanted a massage, all you had to do was call me.” He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I grab a small, empty box and throw it at him.
“No, thank you, Mr. Flirty-McFlirty,” I retort, holding back a smile. Julie—who’s known the Baxters even longer than I have—says that Cyrus was born a flirt. Those two can never get along, and Julie has even threatened me that if I ever allow myself to succumb to his flirtatious manner, she would withdraw her title as my best friend.
The thought of Cyrus and me is about as crazy as Carly suggesting there could be something between Bram and me. The brothers are all handsome, but I can’t picture anything more than friendship with any of them.
“Flirty-McFlirty? That’s really the best you could do?” He laughs and takes a seat beside me.
“Yes. It is.” Wrapping the mason jar in burlap, I tie a bright red ribbon around it before adding an array of wildflowers. Various shades of yellow, orange, and red wink back at me. “What are you doing here anyway?” I ask, peeking a glance at him.
“Just checking on everyone. I haven’t stopped by in a while.”
“Where’s your better half?” I lift a brow at him and take a long drink of my water. Lately, it doesn’t matter how much water I drink, I can’t seem to quench my thirst. Another gift from my new friend, Type I. And the reason I need to pee every five minutes.
Cyrus snorts. “He gets broodier by the day. You know, I’m pretty sure when we were in the womb, I sucked up all the personality.”
I laugh. “Come on, Cy. Titus is not that bad.” Titus is . . . well, he’s Titus. He has a tough exterior. Quiet. Only those closest to him know he’s really a giant teddy bear underneath all that gruff. There’s just a LOT of gruff to get through before you find his soft side. In short, Titus is a Tootsie Pop. The hard exterior he wears protects the soft, gooey inside.
Cyrus arches an eyebrow at me. “Clearly, you have not been around him in a while.”
Shrugging, I pick up another mason jar. Cyrus observes me, tracking my movements as I finish off another centerpiece. Then, he picks up a jar and begins decorating it. I watch as he meticulously ties the twine around each jar and places the flowers in a particular order. The attention to detail coming from the biggest prankster and flirt I’ve ever known surprises me. Not to mention that he’s a brute of a hockey player whose temper got him kicked off the team. But like Bruno, we don’t talk about hockey or dragons when he’s around. We work in companionable silence until we’ve finished the last jar.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“That’s a perk of being the owner’s son. I can run off whenever I want,” Cyrus replies nonchalantly, adding flowers to the jar he’s finishing.
His behavior is a little odd. When’s the last time I’ve been around Cyrus without him attempting a prank, flirting nonstop, or cracking jokes?
Never.
But I’m too tired after working on these centerpieces to question him. Twisting my neck and stretching my shaky arms, I fight the urge to yawn. “Thanks, Cy. I’ll be sure to let Lois know you helped with the decorations for her reception.” I shoot him a wide grin.
“If you tell anyone about this, you’ll be sorry,” he warns playfully as he stands.
Laughing, I try to push away the fog that’s doing its best to settle in my brain. “But Cy, your flower arrangement skills are top-notch.”
“No. One.”
I hold up a hand, hoping he doesn’t notice how bad it’s shaking. Why is it shaking? “Okay, okay. Your secret is safe with me.”
His shoulders relax as he sends me one of his breathtaking smiles. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he rocks back on his heels. “So . . .” he drags out. “Has Bram been by lately?”
My brow furrows as I purse my lips. “Why are you being so weird?”
“Weird’s my middle name.”
Rolling my eyes, I breathe out a chuckle and stand. My head is a little dizzy, but now that I’m done with the centerpieces, I need to clear the kitchen so I can start cooking supper. Just the thought of all that work makes me want to curl up in bed and sleep for days. Maybe I’ll take a nap first.
My thoughts are hazy. What was I doing? Oh, right. Cleaning the table.
I bend over to pick up one of the boxes of jars, but halfway down, my vision begins to blur. Black spots appear before my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they’re still there. With trembling hands, I grasp the side of the table to keep myself upright. I blink several more times, trying to clear my vision and the increasing black spots, to no avail. Every muscle in my body grows weak as if my bones have been liquefied. A wave of nausea makes my stomach roll.
“I-I donfeelsssgood,” I try to mumble, but the words sound wrong to my own ears.
Someone calls my name from a distance, over and over, before my limbs give out and darkness takes over.