Chapter 6
six
GREER
My mother’s voice is shrill from the other end of the line, “I’m going to buy you one of those anti-intruder bars that go under the door.”
“Mom, Parran doesn’t even have a fast food restaurant. The crime is limited to kids toilet papering houses during homecoming week.”
“Do you not watch Discovery ID? It’s always some picture perfect area where a woman is found in a ditch!”
“It’s the bayou, Mom. There are no ditches.”
“That’s even worse,” she screeches.
The impatience leaches through when I point out, “You were much less worried when Cody went to boot camp, and that’s knowing he was going to be given live ammunition.”
“They were making a soldier,” Mom insists.
“True, but this is Cody we’re talking about here…”
I love my brother dearly, but the thought of him with a gun is scary. When eating a laundry pod was a weird internet challenge, Cody actually did it. Then my parents had to explain to the base doctors that, yes, their offspring is in fact stupid enough to actually ingest the entire contents.
My parents worry less about him, though, because Cody has always been indestructible while I have a malfunctioning vital organ.
“You know I worry,” Mom sniffles. “You should have just found a job here until your father retires.”
Ah, the guilt trip. Her weapon of choice.
“Mom, you wouldn’t let me go to a better college because you worried about me living an hour away from you and Dad, even though I had a scholarship.
Then you didn’t want me moving off base with my friends because it’s irresponsible not to save money.
It’s time for me to have my own space. Most of my friends with diabetes have lived in dorms or apartments for years.
” Why does she have to argue with every single decision I make if it’s not the one she feels is best?
She once somehow logged onto the college’s scheduling portal and changed my classes without consulting me, saying I learned better in the mornings.
It was, to date, the biggest argument we’ve ever had. She learned nothing from it.
Mom means well, but she needs to back off a bit. I have a good head on my shoulders, the skills to care for myself, and a profession to pay the bills. I’m good. After getting Mom off the phone, I enjoy a long soak in the tub with one of the nice bath bombs I bought at Sephora.
I don’t get out of the tub until Allie starts banging for her turn.
I’m in my pajamas, repainting my toenails when my ringing phone makes me roll my eyes.
I wonder who Mom and Aunt Marcel called to discuss “the issue with my door and safety.” Maw Maw had four children, and Mom’s mother had five, so all in all I have eleven aunts and uncles—seven biological and four through marriage.
There's no telling who has decided this is their problem to solve.
My mood shifts when I see Jude’s name.
“Just wanted to call to tell you goodnight,” he says in opening.
“Thank you for following me home,” I say. “You and your friend were soaked.”
“Yeah,” he answers with a little laugh, “Even my prospect kit got wet. That’s a first.”
“What’s inside of a prospect kit?” I ask, intent on replacing the contents and adding a waterproof bag.
“Gum, sewing kit, zip ties, headache meds, torque wrench.” Then, with a devilish voice wrapped in silk, he adds “And handcuffs I haven’t used…yet.”
My mouth dry, I force out, “Well, that’s an interesting list of random items.” Vague words, but my tone is definitely one of intrigue.
“Don’t worry, Baby Doll, I still have the cuffs.”
Funny. I was wondering if he kept the zip ties.
Suddenly, I can hear a roaring crowd. Is he at a game of some sort? “What’s that?”
Raising his voice to be heard, he says, “I gotta get back. Sweet dreams.”
“If I can get to sleep,” I answer in an equally raised tone.
Someone in the background seems like they’re talking to him, and he comes back on sounding upset, “They need me. Talk to you soon, Babe.”
Just as I set my phone down, Allie comes out of the en suite bathroom already dressed for bed. She’s acting weird lately, always changing in the bathroom. The newly found modesty makes no sense to me, but I try to respect it.
She piddles around the room, putting on lotion and taking her vitamins.
Hank makes little snorts of frantic displeasure while scratching at the side of the bed.
There’s no space in the room for doggie stairs up to the mattress, and he hates it.
I lean to cradle him on my chest. “Are you ready to go night-night?” I coo.
When I sit upright, my little gremlin licks my face before waddling over to one of the pillows.
My bed partner may snore loud enough to wake up the dead, but his body warmth is my nightly comfort.
My brain is fried after a long day, and I just want to curl up with my buddy and get to sleep.
I’ll need it if I’m going to move this weekend.
I finally gave up the fight after they mentioned Maw Maw has a minor procedure next week.
My aunt will have to be at the nursing home with her whenever she can.
I’ll have to move in as soon as I can so it’s one less thing on everybody’s plate.
I turn onto my side and pet Hank’s rump until he moves over, asking for head rubs. I stroke the bridge of his nose with my thumb as he closes his eyes, finding peace.
I’m not an animal person, I’m a Hank person. I saw him at a table set up outside a grocery store in a wire kennel, his paper nameplate had “I’m diabetic” written in big red letters.
Mom always said we moved too often to have pets, but I knew within three seconds of holding Hank that I’d never go anywhere without him. It’s the way of the Juvenile Diabetes community. You help your own, and Hank needed a home that understood how to care for him.
From the bed across from me, Allie snaps the plastic container closed and slips on her retainer. Her mattress creaks as she tries to settle under the quilt.
“Did you not want P.J. to help me move?” I test.
From the dim light of the adjoining bathroom, I can see her shake her head.
“He’s always at the gym, or tired from it,” she answers.
It’s been the same explanation for anything involving P.J.
, from their once nightly FaceTime calls coming to an abrupt end to his absence at family dinners.
My aunt and uncle are oblivious to whatever is going on with the pair.
My uncle wouldn’t have asked P.J. to help otherwise, but it’s glaringly obvious to me.
They’re on another break. I’ve suspected, but now I’m almost certain, and she doesn't want to talk about it. “Is he still buying that stuff from the Mexican pharmacy?” I prod.
She’s restless, never looking me in the eye while fiddling with her hair. “He says he has to use it to be able to compete.” She sounds so sad, I only want to wash it away, make her smile. I know nothing works when she’s like this, and all I can do is offer an ear to listen.
She fiddles with the tie on her pajama bottoms then offers, “I can stay with you tomorrow night if you don’t want to be alone in the apartment by yourself yet.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll probably be out like a light.”
“I don’t think you’ll be sleeping alone for long anyway. Jude’s following me on Insta,” she admits like it’s a secret.
“And of course you followed back.”
Finally, her eyes meet mine. “A blind man can see how you reacted to him. He gives you butterflies.”
“I ran into him today,” I whisper like a confession.
She chuckles devilishly. “And how did that go?”
“I felt like a lunatic staring at him. He followed me in the rain to make sure I got home okay.”
“On his bike?” she clarifies.
“With a friend of his.”
“Sounds like he’s really into you.” I half expect her to start singing the old playground taunt, “Greer and Jude sittin’ in a tree,” so I do the mature thing and throw a pillow at her.
Without turning to face her, I ask, “Why are you pushing the two of us together?”
“I like how hard he’s willing to work to get you. You’re worth it. Plus, you got all gooey eyed when you looked at him.”
“More like an awkward, gawky mess.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to be like when you fall for someone.” The mattress squeaks again, “You deserve that, butterflies dancing in your stomach every time your man looks at you.”
“He’s not my man…”
“That’s a temporary situation, cous. Accept it.”
It’s always been like this between us at bedtime, talking until we’re ready to doze off. When we were little, we’d always giggle long into the night until an adult came to fuss. Tonight, though, Allie slips on headphones to filter out the occasional beeps of my pump and CGM that keep her awake.
Allie’s right to some degree about Jude. He’s spent the last twenty-four hours lathering me into a hot semi-obsessed mess. It feels like there’s something deep inside of me ready to combust.
I stir in bed, moving from my stomach to my side and back again.
Flipping my pillow over to the cool side doesn’t help.
Hours pass in the quiet house, the buzz of the refrigerator from the kitchen flowing through the wall and into our room.
There are no more whispered secrets between cousins or flirty messages from hot bikers, just my rambling brain, propelled by the anxiety and excitement of life changes.
The sound of crickets keeps me company as I stare at the dark purple walls Allie and I painted on a whim.
I doze off for a few minutes, but my blood sugars do not like what I had for supper one bit.
They’re ping-ponging up and down, even though I had it two weeks ago without issue.
I finally give up and pull out my phone to scroll aimlessly.
I’ve just popped on when a DM highlights my messages. He must have seen my active light.
Band_Aid0612
WYD
Greer
Can’t sleep
Band_Aid0612
Do you have work tomorrow?
Greer
Not till late
Band_Aid0612
I just got off and feeling restless. Wanna go for a ride with me? It helps clear your head.
Greer
We’ll wake up my whole family.
Band_Aid0612
I’ll park down the road and walk up to meet you.
I know better than to answer a late night text. I’m convinced I’m ovulating and my body’s responding to an alpha male’s prime DNA. It’s like there’s a supernatural force drawing me to him.
So I send him the address, then look around the darkened room as if it’ll somehow explain my actions.
As I throw on some clothes, I decide to blame Delphine and the frissons. I leave a sticky note for Allie in case she wakes up, saying I’m out with Jude. We share our location so she can track my phone if she’s worried. She’s been sleeping like the dead lately anyway.
Hank watches each quiet move I make, giving me puppy side eyes.
“Don’t judge me,” I say low to him. He rests his chin on his front paw as if saying, “Lady, I’m done with your nonsense.
” I put my wallet, a bunch of candy, and basic diabetes supplies into my sling type purse, then close the door quietly.
While it’s more about not disturbing their sleep than anything, I feel like a teenager sneaking out, carefully avoiding setting off the doorbell camera on the front of the house.
Jude must not have been far away because he’s walking out of the shadows of the woods. The flood light kicks on, shining right by the master bedroom’s window, and I hustle down further, hoping it turns off before waking them up.
My stomach starts to flutter with anticipation as Jude jogs toward me. We meet up on the edge of the driveway, “Hi…” I say uneasily.
He pulls me in by my belt loops and kisses my forehead.
I will admit I know very little about this man.
I only know his last name, Clairmont, because I noticed it on his Army uniform in an old picture he’s posted.
We’ve never shared a meal or gone out on a date.
But this man suddenly doesn’t feel like a stranger.
“Were you in bed?”
“Yeah. I can’t sleep.”
He checks me up and down, stopping at my waist. With delicate fingers, he tucks the extra length of plastic tubing into my jeans pocket.
On one end is a metal needle embedded in my skin with only a small sticker to hold it in place.
The other attaches to my insulin pump. “Let’s not yank out your site. ”
“I can’t believe you thought of that.”
“I told you, my older sister has diabetes. You good to ride?”
Jude’s right to inquire about my blood sugar. If I’m low, it’s not safe to ride a motorcycle. He’s being sweet, making sure everything’s okay with me. “Yeah, going up and down a bit though.”
“Squeeze my leg if you need me to pull over.”
“Where are we headed?”
“Wherever we feel like going.”
I’m insane for letting him lead me down the dark path toward his Harley, but I don’t even consider doing a gut check. Something inside is propelling me into the shadowed woods with the biker boy.
Jude digs into his saddlebags and comes back with a leather jacket.
He holds it as if to help me put it on. “It’s for protection, not the wind.
It’s going to be too big on you, but it’s better than nothing.
” He slips it over my shoulders, and I thread my arms through.
“We’ll pick something out for you. There’s a bike shop in Thibodeaux with good inventory. ”
“You don’t have to do all that.”
Jude reaches for the zipper I’d hoped to leave open for the breeze, “Yes, I do. I need to know you’re protected while we’re riding.”
I snuggle into the soft leather. It smells like him. The wind and Irish Springs soap. I drag the sleeves up as much as I can while Jude helps me put on a helmet. “I’ve never ridden before,” I confess.
“Good,” he rumbles, lifting me onto his bike.
Once he’s straddled in front of me, he reaches behind and shows me how he wants me to hold onto his body.
He drives slowly at first while I grow accustomed to the position.
After a few minutes, it feels like the natural movement of my own body with each sway of the bike at a curve and acceleration on the now dry streets.
It’s as if riding makes a switch flick off in my brain.
All of my worries…the new job, the apartment, Allie, they all slip away with the white noise of the road and the warmth of Jude’s body.