Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Yes.
Safe to say she was definitely slipping down a steep slope with no brakes.
There had to be good reasons to put them on, but in that moment, she couldn’t fathom a single one. Maybe she wouldn’t until one was staring her right in the face.
Chapter Nineteen
Wells knew something was wrong as soon as Josephine answered the door the following morning. Her ponytail was crooked and she sort of mumbled good morning. None of her chipper, insightful encouragement or words of wisdom. More like a muffled g’mornhey. Once again, she was wearing her white hotel bathrobe and her lack of actual clothing was going to make them late for their designated practice period. Intuition told him not to mention that.
Not this time.
This was not the Josephine he’d left blushing at her door last night.
“Everything okay?” Wells asked cautiously, entering and closing the door behind him.
“I’ll be ready soon,” she called from the bathroom.
Then she said something under her breath to the effect of some of us don’t get to just put on a fucking hat.
Wow. Tough but fair.
There was a lot of truth to that complaint.
Despite the risk of having a hairbrush leveled at his head, he rested his shoulder on the inside of the bathroom doorframe, watching in the mirror as Josephine fashioned another ponytail and ripped it back out, her arms falling back to her sides like they weighed a hundred pounds each. “Yes, but is everything okay, Josephine?”
“It’s stupid. I should know better.” She spoke very concisely. “I ordered room service last night and I didn’t give myself enough insulin for the burger bun. I always underestimate the carbs in burger buns. Always. And I woke up with my blood sugar in the three hundreds.”
It took a serious effort, but he didn’t let his alarm show. “Is that dangerous?”
“I mean, it can be if sustained for a long period of time. But really, it’s just life with diabetes. The three hundreds happen a lot more than I want them to, because I’ll never be able to perfectly mimic a pancreas. It’s impossible.” She closed her eyes, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. “High blood sugar makes me feel on edge and . . . glitchy, sort of. My head aches. Concentrating is hard.”
If Wells could have taken over the condition from her in that moment, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Not for a single second. In fact, fuck his working pancreas. It had a lot of nerve. To have to worry about a burger bun? Not to mention, every single meal. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how anyone could do this every day of the year and not be in a constant state of frustration. “That’s how you’re feeling right now? Your head aches and you’re glitchy.”
“Yes.”
“How do we fix it?”
“We don’t do anything. I do.”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
Silence landed hard.
A combination of things were happening with her—that he could see, anyway. Regret for snapping at him, anger with herself, overall aggravation, physical distress. So many emotions crossing her face at once, like watercolor paints running together—and it was probably a private moment, but Wells couldn’t seem to make himself leave.
“Can you handle this alone . . . without being alone?”
Her eyes slowly climbed to his in the mirror. “Sure,” she answered, guarded.
Relieved, Wells nodded.
“I know I’m making us late,” she said.
“That’s not important right now.”
She let out a breath, picked up the hairbrush, and put it back down. “I’ve given myself a correction, so I’m just waiting for my number to come back down. It will, but sometimes it’s slow. I can still function, though, so let me just get ready.”
“Let’s say we didn’t have to worry about making our practice time, because I’m a fucking golf god and practicing is for mortals. What else could you do to feel better?”
There.
A hint of a smile.
His pulse beat easier.
“I mean . . .” She shrugged. “Drinking water helps. And it’ll come down really fast if I run.”
He raised an eyebrow. Tipped his head subtly toward the main door.
“If you’re implying that you’d like to go for a run with me, no you don’t.”
“Why?”
“If you think I’m irritated now, watch me perform the activity that should be an option only if someone is chasing you with a hunting knife. Do you know your lungs release a little bit of blood when you run? They know it isn’t right.”
“I won’t say a word. We’ll just run.” He turned away from the bathroom and started to stretch, pulling his right heel up to his ass. “I’d really like you to feel better, belle,” he said casually, when he actually wanted to shout, Please feel better immediately. “You think I’m scared of a little irritation? There is a picture of me in the dictionary next to the word ‘irritation.’ And I’ve never once tried to save anyone from it, so why should you do me any favors?”