16. Lucy
sixteen
Lucy
My phone vibrates under my pillow, and I crack my eyes open, only surprised for a moment to see the warm beige walls—so much better than that burnt orange—of my bedroom at Nate’s house. I’ve had a bedroom here for three weeks, and it still feels odd to put those words together.
I swipe my phone to turn off my alarm and rub my temples.
The dull headache that typically accompanies a low-blood-sugar incident is throbbing behind my eyes.
I reach for my diabetes kit on the bedside table, where Nate put it last night after I left it downstairs, hoping I have enough test strips to get through the day and ignoring the shame swelling in my chest as I think of how helpless I was when my sugar crashed.
If Nate hadn’t helped me… I don’t want to think of what could have happened.
When I open the case, I pause. There are two new packs of test strips and two new tubes of glucose tablets that were not here last night.
Moving from muscle memory, I check my blood sugar.
While the number loads, I slide out of the bed and put on the casual dress I wore last night, thankful that I started leaving extra clothes here and I had some comfortable shorts and a T-shirt to sleep in.
It only took me a couple of days to realize that when babysitting a toddler, having an extra set of clothes is essential.
Once I’m dressed and have logged my blood sugar in the app I use to manage all my diabetes things, I take my basal dose of long-acting insulin, pack my kit, grab my purse, and head down the stairs.
As I reach the foyer, the warm, comforting scent of coffee reaches me, and I hear dishes clanging in the kitchen.
I cross the small entry, speaking before I reach the doorway. “Would you care to explain the new supplies I found in my kit this morning?”
I freeze inside the kitchen as I notice Nate cooking eggs on the stove.
His hair is standing on end, as if he has run his hands through it repeatedly.
He turns to me with his brows raised and a spatula in one hand, yellow bits of scrambled eggs clinging to the end of it.
“Good morning, Lucinda. Have you checked your sugar yet?”
I roll my eyes and slump against the doorframe. “Yes. It’s totally normal.”
His eyes roam my face, like he’s trying to read the number straight out of my mind. The dark circles under his eyes make my stomach squeeze with concern. His brows scrunch. “What did you need me to explain?”
My eyes narrow. “Are you okay?”
His frown deepens, and he turns back to his skillet, then scoops eggs onto two plates. “I’m fine. Is that what you meant to ask?”
I clear my throat, and my gaze wanders across the kitchen, catching on the island, where Quinn and I usually have breakfast. It’s normally empty, except when we pick flowers and put them in a vase, or when we finger-paint and leave pictures there to dry.
But today, it’s laden with stacks of papers, a laptop, a notebook, and a worn Bible.
I feel Nate’s gaze on my face like a soft touch and turn to him. “Did you refill my diabetes kit?”
His eyes drop from my face to the loaf of bread on the counter as he twists the little tie around the bag. “Yes. Is that a problem?”
I clench my jaw and cross my arms. “I can buy my own supplies.”
His hazel eyes, tired but calm, meet mine. “Can you?”
My hands ball into fists under my arms. “Yes. I can.”
His eyes dart between mine, then drop back to the loaf of bread as he pulls four pieces from the bag and loads them in the toaster.
Wordlessly, he pulls a mug from the cabinet and sets it on the counter.
He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a bowl of strawberries and the coffee creamer.
He adds strawberries to both plates and pours creamer into the mug.
That’s an awful lot of food for Quinn, and if he gives her that plate, he risks it shattering on the floor when she pushes it off her tray.
I frown as a realization creeps into my sleepy mind. “You don’t take creamer in your coffee.”
His eyes meet mine briefly, then fall back to the mug as he pours coffee into it. “No, I don’t.”
He pulls another mug from the cabinet, adds two spoons of sugar from the bowl on the counter, and fills it with coffee, too.
The toaster pops, and he puts two pieces of toast on each plate. He grabs the mug with creamed coffee and a plate and turns to me. “I triple-checked—all of this is about thirty-eight carbs.”
My eyes widen, and my jaw drops from its clenched position as he carries the plate and mug to the island, sets them down, and tidies up the papers and things that were spread on the countertop.
I frown, unable to move from my spot in the doorway. “You made me breakfast?”
He turns to me with a stack of papers in his hands and a crooked smirk on his face. “Yes. I’m sure you can do that yourself, too, but just humor me and eat, please.”
He crosses the room to retrieve the other plate and mug, and carries them to the island, where he sets them beside the dishes that are apparently meant for me. My eyes narrow. “First, you bought me supplies; now you’ve made me breakfast. What are you up to, Nathaniel?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not up to anything, Lucille. Are you going to join me, or not?”
I purse my lips as I debate. Those eggs look so delicious—way better than the granola bar I’d eat at home.
And I’m starving after last night’s crash.
I let my eyes fall shut in a long blink and nod.
I carry my diabetes case into the small bathroom off the mudroom, calculate my insulin bolus, and take it before returning to the kitchen.
When I get back, I avoid meeting Nate’s gaze as I cross the room and join him on the barstools lining the island, setting my diabetes kit and purse on the counter beside my plate.
As soon as I’m seated, he bows his head and prays over our food, asking God to bless us with a good day and ample opportunities to glorify Him.
Before he closes his prayer, he asks God to give us open minds and hearts.
Frowning at his choice of words, I take a sip of coffee and sigh as the soothing liquid warms my belly.
My eyes wander to the stacks of papers across the island from me, and my frown deepens.
The heading on one stack is the name of a medical insurance company.
The heading on the other says, “Diabetes-Friendly Meal Planning.”
I set my mug on the counter and pick up my fork, but I pause before I take a bite. As I turn to Nate, I lose my nerve and choose a different question at the last minute. “Why do you have creamer if you don’t use it?”
His eyes meet mine, and he shrugs. “I got it for you.”
That explains why the bottle didn’t get lighter between babysitting days—I’m the only one using it. “How did you know the flavor was my favorite?”
He smirks and scoops eggs onto a corner of his toast. “It’s the only flavor you order at Willow my mind is reeling. This is too much. “This sounds crazy.”
He nods. “It would be for someone else. But it’s us. Maybe it’s not as crazy as it seems.”
I try to draw a deep breath, but the oxygen I need so desperately seems to get stuck somewhere in my chest.
He scoots his stool back and carries his plate to the sink. “Think about it, pray about it, and let me know what you decide.”
My gaze trails him as he walks out of the kitchen, but I can’t move.
Nate Walker asked me to marry him.
And he meant it.
I shake myself from my stupor as I hear him climb the stairs.
I finish my plate quickly and robotically, barely tasting the food as I think through Nate’s insane proposal and try to quell the thought that this might solve a lot of problems for both of us.
But we’re talking about forever… with Nate.
My head and my heart wage war as I carry my plate to the sink. I gather my things and head for the door, praying for guidance as I rush home to get ready for church.