Chapter 13 Flo
“Fuck,” I hiss, yanking my hand back instinctively after the needle connected to my sewing machine catches my skin. My fault, really, but blaming a hunk of metal makes me feel better about not paying attention as I work on one of my current projects—a flowy, lacy white skirt.
My hands are shaking, and I release the fabric as a tiny bead of blood pools at my fingertips.
After dragging myself out of the chair and throwing myself on the couch—I’ve been sleeping on it with a blanket the past few nights because the sheets and comforter on the bed are scratchy, and I’ve finally reached my limit—I pull up my phone.
There are a few notifications on it, including one from my sister and two from Mae, but it’s the latest one that catches my attention. The app connected to my CGM monitor is indicating that my blood sugar level is low, and I need to eat something.
I injected myself with my usual insulin, but I definitely haven’t eaten enough today to balance it out. Running around after a child is hard work, especially when that child is chasing after a bunny.
My fingers work on autopilot as I peel myself off the couch and put some bread in the toaster, but my shoulders droop once I realise I’m out of strawberry jelly to spread on it.
I immediately grab the carton of orange juice to take a quick swig, but my face falls when I realise how light it is, and there’s nothing in it.
Who puts back a carton when it’s empty?
Me, apparently.
I watch the toaster heat up, and feeling my body get floppier, I lean up against the kitchen counter, shutting my eyes for just a few seconds.
Or maybe it’s a few minutes.
I’m not too sure.
A sudden, high-pitched beeping sound jolts me out of my thoughts, and I snap my gaze to the toast burning inside the jammed toaster, the detector above the kitchen appliances flashing red as it inhales the smoke from the burning food.
My heart nearly leaps out of my chest as I spin and yank the cord out of the wall, and bang on the side of the metal toaster as if it’s choking, causing the crispy black bread to pop up. I immediately throw them into the sink and douse them in cold water.
The smell of burning wafts up my nostrils, and I fumble with the window latch as the smoke detector continues to scream at me. Waving a dish towel through the air to try to shut it up, I glare at it.
“People are sleeping, be quiet,” I order it, as if it’ll realise past midnight isn’t an appropriate time to warn me about my cooking abilities and quieten down.
Just as the smoke detector stops beeping, there’s a frantic knock at my door, and, clamping my teeth together, I open it to reveal an almost naked Evan.
His chest heaves, as if he just ran over here from his house. Wide eyes search me, his body dressed in only a pair of wonky tartan pyjama pants, looking like he yanked them on after leaping out of bed.
Now isn’t the time to wonder if he sleeps naked, but my mind goes there anyway.
“Your smoke detector was going off,” he states, as if I hadn’t heard it myself. “You scared the shit out of me. Are you okay?”
My head bobs in a nod, and Evan peers through the smoke-filled cabin. Stepping in, he inspects the area, releasing a small sound of understanding in the back of his throat once he spots my now soggy and black bread sitting in the sink, staining the steel.
“I’m fine.” I place the dish towel back, scrape the soggy bread from the sink, and transfer it to the trash with trembling fingers, my stomach deciding to growl for dramatic effect.
“I… got distracted… and then… the toaster got jammed. Just my luck.” My words pour from my mouth, sounding like a jumbled mess.
“I just need some air… I can’t breathe in here. ”
I make it to the steps leading up to the cabin and drop down, head against the metal bannister. It cools my sweating forehead, and I take a deep breath, feeling woozy. There are footsteps behind me, but they sound muffled, like my ears have been stuffed with cotton.
“Flo.” Evan sounds closer now.
His mouth is moving as he bends down in front of me, talking more, but the words don’t reach my ears. “What?”
“I said, are you okay?”
“I’m… fine—I just need to get…” I rub at my temples, taking another inhale to compose myself before I try to stand again, but then there’s a finger under my chin. It tilts my face up, and I’m met with Evan’s very close, concerned face.
“Flo, look at me.” His tone grows serious. “You don’t look fine.”
My throat is dry, and even though I try to swallow, I can’t. Panicking isn’t a nice feeling, especially when you feel too out of it to help yourself in the moment. My chest is tight, which is a stark difference from how my limbs feel.
“Hey,” Evan whispers comfortingly, before realisation washes over his face. “What do you need? Sugar? Do you need sugar?” He’s on his feet now, rummaging through the cupboards and drawers like a madman, mumbling to himself. “Chocolate? Will chocolate help?”
I shake my head as he pulls a purple bar from a drawer and holds it up. “Doesn’t work fast enough.” My vision is slightly blurred, and I push the heels of my palms into my eye sockets and rub. “Juice. I… need juice, please.”
“Juice,” Evan repeats, yanking the fridge open and snatching the empty carton of orange juice out. “Shit, it’s fucking empty, Flo.” Growling in worry, he says, “Stay here, okay? Don’t try to get up. I’ll be right back.”
All I do is nod as he jogs quickly towards the main house, remerging in record speed with a carton from his own fridge. His strides are heavy as he marches to me, and he gets onto his haunches and unscrews the cap of juice.
My fingers half-take the cartoon from his grasp, shaky, and he wraps his own around mine so I don’t drop it as I down some of the liquid.
Evan waits, eyebrows drawn and lips in a flat line, before he takes in my sitting position, all slouched over and uncomfortable on the hard steps.
“Oh, fuck it,” he murmurs before sweeping me up into his arms. They’re protective as they wrap around me, holding me to his chest tightly as he walks us over to the double bed, gently placing me down now that the smoke has escaped the room.
He hovers beside me, tapping his fingers against each other in anxiety, Adam’s apple moving up and down as he swallows. Placing the back of his hand on my forehead, he swipes the beads of sweat that have accumulated.
I continue to sip at the orange juice until I’ve had enough, and once Evan notices me trying to set it down on the floor, he takes it from me and asks, “How long until it starts to work?”
“About ten minutes.” I shut my eyes and feel the dip of the bed beside me, Evan’s warmth rolling off him in gentle waves, smothering me. But it’s a nice feeling.
“Ten minutes. I’m gonna sit here with you, okay? Until you feel better.”
“Okay, thank you.” My voice is breathy.
Neither one of us talks. The room is still.
Somewhere between the owls hooting and crickets humming from outside, there’s a fast rhythm coming from Evan.
His heartbeat. Quick and erratic. Like he’s not calm at all, despite the soothing sounds outside that people would usually have to pay some sleeping app to produce for them.
His throat works with a heavy gulp, and the sound of him breathing in through his nostrils touches my ears, which are now starting to feel less like I’m underwater.
But I let my eyes fall shut.
And breathe. In and out.
Slowly.
Until the tingling in my hands stops, and my hands are no longer shaking.
“When’s the last time you ate?” Evan asks softly after about ten minutes.
“Um, brunch… I think.” My eyes open.
He presses his tongue against his teeth and whistles, unhappy. “Shit, Flo. You need to take better care of yourself.”
“I know.” I run my hand through my hair. It’s damp. “Sorry. I probably woke you and Leo up.”
“This isn’t about me or Leo. You need to take better care of yourself for you. It’s dangerous, Flo. And… fucking scary.”
“I’m sorry.” I sit up slowly, backing myself against the headboard. I’m no longer overwhelmingly dizzy. Surveying the surrounding area, I say, “Wow, you really made a mess of my kitchen.”
Evan lets out a humoured puff of air. “Because I thought you were going to die.” He looks at me, completely serious. “Do I need to send you a reminder to eat every day so you don’t pass out alone without my knowledge? And I’m not kidding. I’ll do it, Flo.”
“No, no, you don’t need to do that.” There’s no hesitation in my voice.
“I don’t usually get so wrapped up in things.
I’ve always been good at remembering to eat, but…
my niece’s birthday is coming up, and I always make her clothes as a gift.
I’m running behind, and it’s worrying me, so I just wasn’t really thinking.
I’ll make sure I eat enough from now on. ”
Evan turns his head towards the vibrant kids' clothes on the table. “Can I see them?”
“What?”
“The clothes. Can you show me them?”
“Sure.” Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I pad over to the table slowly, ensuring I don't push past my limit. Evan’s gaze is stuck to me like glue, leaning forward as if he’s ready to leap in case I fall. I snatch up my creations in my hands and lay them over the bed.
His gaze sweeps over them, focusing on each piece individually, fingers dusting over the soft fabric.
A white skirt that’s almost finished.
A pale yellow top with a rainbow design and pink frilly sleeves.
A pair of blue linen shorts, a reversible white and pink belt wrapped around the waist, and a beaded chain hanging from it.
“How long have you been working on these?”
I shrug, but the action feels like I’m lifting a fifty-pound dumbbell. “A couple of weeks. Since I’ve been here.”
“Flo, you’re really talented.”
My eyes flick upwards in a roll. “Yeah, okay.”