2. Lucy #2
Mom laughs and waves his comment off as though she’s not letting the compliment go to her head. “Oh, Nate. You’re too kind. I know they can’t compete with your mom’s cinnamon rolls.”
He chuckles. “Didn’t you give her the recipe?”
Mom’s smile stretches from ear to ear. “I might have, but she improved it. They sell out so fast at her bakery. I’m so proud of her. It’s not easy to start a new business at our age, you know?”
He smiles and nods. I roll my eyes while Mom has her head turned, then shoot a glare at Nate. “What are you doing here? It’s Saturday.”
He chews his bite of cinnamon roll slowly, like he’s not in any hurry to leave my parents’ house. He swallows and slices off another bite with his fork; his eyes dart up to meet mine. “I needed to get my taxes filed.”
My eyes narrow. So, he’s been here harassing my dad on his day off. Just because you know a CPA doesn’t give you the right to take advantage of their time. “You would wait until the last minute. The deadline’s like two weeks away.”
Mom bumps my arm with her elbow, flashing me a stern warning look.
“Don’t be disrespectful, Lucy.” Dad raises his wiry black brows at me from the hallway that leads to his office. “Nate got his taxes filed before the deadline, which is all that really matters. Besides, I don’t mind working for an hour or so on a Saturday for a local hero.”
Dad pivots his attention to Nate as he crosses the kitchen. He gives Nate a nod—the Henry Burke equivalent of a town mayor presenting someone with the key to the city.
Nate smiles softly, one side of his mouth lifting higher than the other. He shakes his head. “I don’t know that I would go that far, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
Dad kisses the top of my head as he passes me and helps himself to one of Mom’s cinnamon rolls, scooping extra icing onto his plate with a chill-raising scrape of the spoon against the glass pan.
Mom reaches across the island to refill Nate’s coffee mug. She sets the carafe on the countertop and pats his hand. “Always so humble. You’re not fooling us, though. We know how hard you work to help people, and we respect you immensely for it.”
Nate’s cheeks flush, and his eyes dart to me. He clears his throat. “I’m just happy to help.”
Mom visibly melts, like butter in the sunlight.
She adjusts the dish towel she has thrown over her shoulder, shaking her head with awe shining in her eyes.
“You’ve turned out to be such a good man, Nate.
Your mom always has a new rescue story to tell me when she calls. She’s so proud of you. We all are.”
I let out a soft groan and turn my back to my mom, pulling a glass from the cabinet beside the refrigerator. “Tone down the gooiness a little, Mom. You’re making me nauseous.”
As I fill the glass with water from the spout in the fridge door, Mom pops my backside with the dish towel she had draped over her shoulder.
I jump and cover the sore spot with my hand, barely avoiding spilling my water all over the floor. “Hey!”
She raises a brow at me, unrepentant. “Don’t be rude, Lucy. He’ll leave if you can’t play nicely.”
Nate clears his throat, but it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. He stands and carries his plate to the sink, rinsing the icing off under the faucet. “I’d better get going, anyway.”
He wipes his hands on his jeans and offers Dad a handshake. “Thanks for opening up shop on a Saturday for me. I really appreciate it.”
Dad nods as he shakes Nate’s hand. “Of course, son, happy to.”
He turns to Mom and hugs her. “Thank you for breakfast, Joanne. It was delicious.”
Mom sets her hands on his shoulders and smiles. “You’re welcome, Nate. I’m sorry that Lucy scared you off so soon.”
I turn and look out the window over the sink to hide the look of contempt I’m sure is displayed on my face as I sip my glass of water.
Nate’s chuckle skates down my spine, and I fight off a shiver. “No, of course not. I have a few more things I need to take care of today before I report for my shift in the morning.”
“Well, don’t wait for an excuse to visit next time. Stop by and see us when you can.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I feel Nate’s shoulder brush against mine, but I don’t turn around. “See you later, Luce.”
I throw a half-hearted wave over my shoulder and stay put until I hear the door slide shut.
Mom pops my butt with the towel again, and I turn to face her with a scowl, rubbing the sore spot. “Would you stop doing that, please?”
“I’ll stop when you stop treating that sweet young man so poorly.”
I let my head fall back and release a long breath. “What about the way he treats me? Are you going to pop his butt with a towel, too?”
Mom crosses her arms, her silvery blonde bob swaying with the motion. “How exactly does he treat you poorly, Lucy?”
I clench my jaw and draw a deep breath. “He calls me ridiculous nicknames and does everything he can to pester me. It’s childish.”
Mom raises her brows, her dish towel hanging from the crook of her arm menacingly. “Did you ever think that he does those things because he likes you?”
The eye roll I give my mother takes me back about ten years. “If that’s the case, I have four-year-olds in my class that could give him a lesson on making friends.”
She tilts her head and purses her lips. “I don’t mean that he likes you as a friend. He’s proven time and time again that he’s a good friend to you. I’m saying that he might pick on you because he likes you as more than a friend.”
My brows climb my forehead, and I look at my dad for help. He can’t be counted on for backup, though. He’s too interested in eating his cinnamon roll and watching the drama unfold before him.
I turn back to my mom and take a steadying breath. “Respectfully, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. There’s no possible way that Nate Walker has any kind of feelings for me other than urges to drive me bonkers.”
Mom shakes her head and smirks like she knows something I don’t. “I don’t know, Lucy. I think you might be surprised.”
I run my hand through the shoulder-length, blonde hair I inherited from my mom and close my eyes. “Whatever. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“What do you want to talk about, sweetheart?” Dad chimes in from his spot across the kitchen, still leaning on the cabinet and savoring his cinnamon roll. The deep blue eyes he passed on to me roam my face like he’s looking for something amiss. “Is everything okay?”
I draw a deep breath and let it out slowly, leaning against the sink for support. “I don’t know. I mean, yes. But I’m kind of overwhelmed.”
Mom sets her dish towel on the counter and takes a step closer, her deep brown eyes shadowed by her frowning brows. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I’ve been feeling a little off for the last few weeks. Reese convinced me to go to the doctor and get checked out.” I swallow my nerves and meet my mom’s gaze. “Turns out I have type 1 diabetes.”
Mom’s jaw drops, and she blinks a few times. “Diabetes? How?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Dr. Pennington said it’s an autoimmune disease, and my body is fighting itself. She said I haven’t done anything to cause it; it just kind of happened.”
She wraps me up in a hug, and I search Dad’s expression over her shoulder. His brows are scrunched, and his eyes are glazed as though he’s deep in thought. He runs a hand over his face, and his shoulders drop with a sigh.
Mom steps back, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Are you okay? What do you need? How can we help?”
“You don’t have insurance.”
I meet Dad’s gaze as his words fill the kitchen. “I have a major medical policy.”
He shakes his head. “It won’t touch this.”
I purse my lips. He’s right; it won’t.
“I can’t add you to my policy now, since you’ve turned twenty-six. Even if you tried to get better coverage now…” He runs a hand over his face. “This won’t make it easy. And insulin isn’t cheap either way.”
Mom’s concerned face fills my vision. “Do you need insulin, or can you just watch what you eat?”
I pull my crossbody backpack around to the front, unzip it, and grab the bright pink case containing all my diabetes supplies. “I need insulin.”
I open the case and lay it on the counter. Mom and Dad both come closer to get a better look at the contents. “Reese and Skye helped me put this kit together last night. It’s everything I’ll need to handle my blood sugar in one place.”
Dad’s eyes roam over everything in the case, and Mom sets her hands on the counter, her eyes darting up to mine. “Show me everything and how to use it. If you’re not feeling well, I want to be able to help.”
It takes a while, and Mom has several questions, but eventually I walk them through each item in the case.
When I’ve explained everything, I lean against the kitchen sink.
Exhaustion pulls at my shoulders. The reality of constantly checking my blood sugar and trying to keep it stable settles like a stifling weight in my chest. There are no breaks. There’s no off switch.
This is my life now.
As I cough, trying to draw a full breath around the pressure in my chest, Dad clears his throat. He has had his arms crossed and his brows furrowed for several minutes. “How much did all of this cost without insurance?”
I avoid his gaze as I pack the supplies back into my case. “Well, I saved a lot of money by getting insulin pens and a glucometer instead of an insulin pump and a continuous glucose monitor.”
I can feel his eyes boring into my skull. “Lucy.”