Page 48 of For Better or Hearse
Nathaniel’s eyes sweep over her, linger on her sensor. Attached to the back of her arm like a Frankenstein bolt. A long time ago, she’d be self-conscious. Now? Her diabetes is notthething. It’s justherthing. A part of her that’s overall cooperative, even if, at times, it’s a pain in her ass. She deals. She survives. She conquers. Sugar is not death. Everything in moderation.
“How do you like that compared to the finger prick?” Nathaniel asks, brows high.
Her heart briefly stutters at the question. “It lets me feel like I have a life.”
He nods like he understands. “When were you diagnosed?” Before she can answer, he holds up a hand. “Don’t feel like you have to answer. I’m a doctor. I’m naturally—”
“Nosy,” she finishes.
Expression soft, he says, “I was going to say curious.”
“I don’t mind.”
Nathaniel butting in, being interested, is more than she ever got from Jakob.
“I don’t need the gory details, Ash,” Jakob said when she tried to explain it to him once.
She shifts on the lounger. Well aware of the meager inches separating their bodies. “I was twelve. Height of middle school, so you know, the timing was”—she smacks her fingers with gusto—“chef’s kiss.”
Nathaniel’s presence, his intense gaze on her, doesn’t slow her down. No. Surprisingly, it makes her want to talk to him.
“I didn’t know what was happening. For a few months, I felt off. Thirstier than normal. Tired. I passed out in school. I was in a coma for a week, if you can believe that. I almost died. Clearly, I didn’t. But it did get me out of gym class for a month. Bright side, right?”
Gently, Nathaniel says, “Jesus.”
The memory comes to her with ease. She’s thought about it every day since she was diagnosed. Tessie, shaking her, screamingAshabelle!like the sound of her full stupid-ass name would be enough to snap her out of the coma. And maybe it did, because it’s the only thing she remembers about that awful time in her life.
Her heart pounds as she goes on. “It took a bit to understand what I was dealing with. I hated it, hated myself. At the time, it was like a scarlet letter embedded on my forehead. Everyone knew. It’s all they wanted to talk about. All they worried about.” She traces a finger over the rose on her thigh and takes a deep breath. “It really fucking sucked. Everyone acting like I had glass bones and paper skin. They thought if I touched a piece of sugar, I’d drop dead. Or they excluded me from birthday parties because suddenly, I was no longer normal.”
Nathaniel’s frown deepens, his shoulders sinking. “They did that?”
“Oh yeah. Kids are mean.” She smiles. “But then my parents put me in a camp when I was thirteen, and it was like a bong hit for every one of my senses. Every camper, every counselor there had it. I wasn’t alone. It was normalized—as much as you can normalize diabetes.”
A strange softness washes over his handsome features, his usually icy blue irises warming.
Ash drops her stare, takes a sip of her slowly melting piña colada. “It’s cheesy, but now it’s just me. Diabetes doesn’t control me. There is nothing I can’t do. I’ve lived an awesome fucking life so far. I can still eat chocolate, have a beer, travel the world, and almost fall off the sides of volcanoes.”
Nathaniel chuckles. Then scrubs a hand across his jaw, contemplative. “And all of this plays into your morbid obsession with death?” Not an ounce of judgment in his tone. Just stark curiosity.
Ash sobers. Squints at him. “It’s not an obsession. Technically, it’s probably existential OCD, but what’s so wrong with caring about death anyway? Babies, marriages, first homes. Those are big life events. Death is too. Everyone deserves their last wishes.”
He assesses her quietly for a moment and then says, “That’s an interesting take on it.”
She bites her lip as a prickly defensiveness that always hit when she was with Jakob crashes over her. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
He pins his gaze to hers. Frowns.
Her stomach blooms with heat at the intensity of his eye contact.
With a sigh, he says, “I didn’t say you were wrong.”
Inhaling deep, Ash calms her tongue and her defenses. It’s a strange sensation. A man listening. Looking at her in a way that makes her think she could tell him anything and he’d accept it.
Maybe Nathaniel Whitford’s one positive attribute in life is that he pays attention.
He tilts his head. “Where’s your big, dumb floppy hat?”
She snorts. “Trash. Why?”