Truly Madly Montana

by Fiona Lowe

  “For the fireworks display? Sure, they do it every year.” As far as he understood, her job was to make sure that people were viewing from a safe distance, and she’d done that. All she had to do now was sit back and enjoy the show. “The town fireworks are as safe as they come. It’s the DIY ones in backyards and out in the streets that usually cause the problems.”

  “Of course. Right.” She checked her watch, her actions jerky. “Two minutes to go.”

  He liked the idea she was excited. “As a kid I drove my parents crazy waiting for the fireworks to start, and I still get a buzz out of them.” He held his hand out toward her. “Come on, I know the perfect place to watch them.”

  “I don’t want to watch them,” she said flatly, her arms firmly by her side.

  He dropped his hand, kicking himself that he’d even offered it. This wasn’t like the time she was off duty and they’d gone dancing. The times they’d done kickboxing. “Why not?”

  She looked almost apologetic. “Ethan, I hate fireworks.”

  “But they’re spectac—” You are a world-class idiot. “Because of the noise?”

  She nodded, anguish written all over her face. “It’s like a mortar attack. Every part of me wants to take cover, but I’ve got to be here until the show’s over and the crowd’s dispersed.”

  The event most everyone in town had been looking forward to all day was her worst nightmare—her and every dog in the county, and the display was about to start any minute. Think.

  He caught her hand in his and squeezed it. “I’ve got an idea.” Tugging her over to the hood of the police car, he climbed up and patted the space next to him. “Sit here.”

  “Ethan, that’s—”

  “No time to argue, Tara.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly worked to untangle the earbuds. “Here you go.”

  He pressed the earpieces in her ears and scrolled through to a playlist of music that would be the perfect accompaniment for fireworks. Cranking up the volume, he hit play as the sky lit up with color—the tendrils of fireworks raining fire-engine red, dazzling white and royal blue high above them. A moment later, the first boom vibrated the air, thundering around them. Tara flinched. He turned the sound up higher, and the music was now so loud he could hear it spilling out from the earbuds. It felt as natural as breathing to listen to the music, gaze up at the sky, sling his arm around her shoulder and hold her tense body close.

  THE operatic “Ride of the Valkyries,” which always made Tara think of watching early-morning cartoons of Bugs Bunny being chased by Elmer Fudd, blasted into her ears, the orchestral instruments dominating all her senses. With the crashing symbols and the swell of the brass overriding most of the cracking boom of the fireworks, she dared to open her eyes to the sky. The music was a perfect match to the spectacle.

  Balls of color bloomed across the inky darkness. Streaks of vivid white light tore up through the night as straight as a rocket before exploding and pouring back down like fluorescent hail. Ethan’s shoulder pressed gently into her back, and she could feel the warmth of his arm through the sturdy cotton of her uniform. It should feel wrong. She should be leaning forward, but the touch had no agenda other than comfort, and she wanted it. Needed it for the next few minutes.

  The music faded and her body jerked as she felt a boom vibrate in her chest. Ethan immediately pressed the phone’s screen, and then soaring violins, the grand rumbling of timpani drums and the heralding sound of trumpets deafened her. She managed a weak laugh. “Star Wars?”

  The light from the fireworks showed warmth and caring in his eyes. “It’s perfect for fireworks. Rousing and grand.”

  “Got any John Philip Sousa?”

  “I do, but I thought given the circumstances a military march might not be the best choice.”

  Her heart felt like it stopped for a split second before starting again, and her throat got ridiculously tight. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a really nice guy?”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Sadly, all of the time.”

  She didn’t know what to say to that, so she listened to the music, and when Bruce Springsteen came on, she joined him in singing, “Born in the U.S.A.” The moment the last trickle of light fell from the sky, Ethan dropped his arm.

  Her back instantly felt cold, and all she wanted to do was lean back against him. Self-preservation made her slide off the hood. If she’d learned anything from her disastrous marriage, it was not to make any life-changing decisions under fire. She’d married Tim because she was scared. War was about survival, and what was needed to survive in war was very different from what was needed in peacetime.

  The fireworks were over and so was this moment. She pulled the earbuds out of her ears. “Thank you. That really helped.”

  “You’re welcome.” He lifted his phone out of her hand and put it in his pocket. “I guess I should go and leave you to make sure the crowd departs peacefully.”

  He was right—she had another hour of work left before she was off duty, but that didn’t stop a stab of disappointment catching her under the ribs.

  He raised his hand and gave her a geeky robot-style wave. “Catch you later, Tara.”

  A crazy panicky feeling flipped her stomach as he turned away. One part of her was grateful that he didn’t suggest she stop by his house after work or he stop by hers, but another part of her wanted to know exactly when catch you later was going to be.

  “Ethan.”

  He turned back.

  “Can you spot me tomorrow at kickboxing?”

  “Sure.”

  “And I need to ask you about how I go about organizing child care for my exercise class.”

  Even in the shadows of the night, she saw a smile roll across his face. “You decided to run a class? That’s awesome.”

  She tried to shut down the part of her that almost purred with his approval. “With you and Millie both thinking it was a great idea, did I really have a choice?”

  “You always have a choice, Tara,” he said softly. “I’d respect it whatever it was.”

  Suddenly it felt a lot like they were talking about something else entirely.

  “SHUT up, Dex! I know already,” Millie yelled at her beeping CGM.

  The past week since the Fourth of July had been a great week for her diabetes, but tonight she felt like crap. Her blood sugar was three hundred, and her stomach cramped so hard she was lying on the sofa with her knees drawn up to her chest. Some days she hated being a woman. She’d exercised, she’d given herself extra insulin, but the hell if it was doing a damn thing to bring down her numbers.

  She checked the time on her phone, and a sob gurgled out of her mouth. Will was supposed to be picking her up for Shakespeare in the Parks in fifteen minutes. She’d really been looking forward to the picnic and the play—his promised romantic evening—but she couldn’t go feeling like this. She could hardly see straight, let alone concentrate on understanding old English. Experience had taught her that a blood sugar spike like this was always followed by a crashing low, which meant she had hours in front of her of pricking her finger and testing her blood sugar and feeling like death warmed up. Plus, she kept having to pee.

  And you don’t want Will to see you like this.

  She reached for her phone. He’ll hear it in your voice.

  Bringing up the message icon, she typed:

  Sorry! Something’s come up. Enjoy the show and say hi to Katrina and Josh from me. Millie x

  She summoned up enough energy to toss the phone back onto the coffee table and then lay back down, her head feeling like someone had opened it up and stuffed it full of sticky goop. She stared at her bare toes at the end of the sofa, surprised to see them, because she’d swear she was wearing lead-lined boots.

  “Knock, knock, honey. I saw this in a little boutique in San Francisco when I was visiting Evan . . .”

  Mom? Bloody hell. One of Will’s expressions wove slowly across her sluggish mind, and she sat up before her mother got into
the room.

  “. . . and I thought it would be perfect for—” Susie’s voice faltered. “Millie, you look a bit pale. Are you sick?” Susie put the dress store carry bag on the coffee table and then automatically reached for Millie’s forehead. “You feel warm. Have you taken your temperature?”

  This was why she never told her parents her numbers. “Mom, I don’t have a fever. It’s just that time of the month and this one’s a bit nasty. Please don’t fuss.”

  “I’m your mother. Fussing comes with the job description.”

  Millie reached for the carry bag, hoping to distract her with the contents. “Show me what you found.”

  Susie smiled. “The perfect summer dress for you.”

  Millie doubted it. With clothing, her mother seemed to fight against Millie’s diabetes as strongly as Millie had once fought it by trying to ignore it. “Mom, you know I don’t wear dresses because they never allow for my—”

  “Shush. You haven’t even seen it.” Her mother gave her an apologetic look. “I know I’ve always tried to push you into wearing dresses, and I’ve been thinking about what you said the night you wore the tuxedo, which is why when I saw this it said, Millie.” Susie pulled the dress out and shook it free of the tissue paper. “It’s the perfect color for you.”

  And it was. She took in the 1950s’ princess-line dress with its modern overtones. The bodice had a low, square neckline and was the navy blue color of a deep lake on a cloudy day. Scattered over the blue was a fine pattern of white speckles, which spread across the sleeves and the bust. They faded to nothing at the point where the color slowly leeched to a summer sky blue and then to the same turquoise green as the ocean in Will’s photo. The skirt flared and the white speckles recommenced four inches from the hem.

  “Look,” Susie said gleefully. “It’s got lovely deep pockets, which are part of the dress and not stitched on as an afterthought, so the lines are smooth and flattering. What do you think?”

  Even with her slightly blurred vision, Millie could see it would not only suit her, it would flow over her belly, allowing for Dex and her pump’s insertion sites. “I love it.”

  Susie blew out a relieved breath. “Really?”

  “Really. It’s got all the elements I need in a dress. Thanks for thinking of me.”

  Susie smiled as if Millie had given her a gift. “I’m always thinking of you, honey. I thought perhaps you could wear it tonight. It might be a treat for Will to see you in a dress for a change and see those lovely legs of yours.”

  Given Will generally tried to undress her whenever they were alone, she wasn’t sure he’d care either way. She was about to tell her mother she wasn’t going to the play when Will walked in.

  She stifled a groan. She really needed to start locking her door.

  “Hello, Will,” Susie said breezily.

  “G’day, Susie.” Will smiled and stretched out his hand in greeting.

  Susie ignored his hand and presented her cheek for a kiss.

  Will didn’t seem to mind at all and brushed it quickly with his lips. “You’re looking as lovely as ever.”

  “You’re almost forgiven for giving Bethany first prize in the chili cook-off.”

  He grinned at her, all easy and relaxed charm. “What will put me back in the good books?”

  “Come for family supper one night this week.”

  “Mom,” Millie spluttered, but her lagging brain was a beat too slow. Will was already accepting the invitation.

  “You kids have a good night,” Susie said before disappearing out the door.

  The moment it clicked shut, Millie watched Will’s smile vanish. “What’s going on, Millie? Your mother thinks we’re going to the play, but you just blew me off with a text.”

  “I didn’t blow you off. I—”

  Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

  Will picked up Dex and sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus, Millie. Four hundred and ten? For a month you’ve been telling me you’ve got your diabetes under control. What have you been doing?”

  His words punched her, opening old wounds from years past, and fury as hot as a furnace ignited. “What have I been doing? Obviously you think I’ve been bingeing on cotton candy and drinking beer.”

  He looked momentarily perplexed. “Have you?”

  She threw a cushion at his head, feeling ridiculously betrayed. He should understand.

  Why? He’s an ER physician. You’ve had two endocrinologists who didn’t get it.

  But I need him to.

  “You obviously think I’ve been mainlining sugar.” She struggled to her feet. “Get out of my way. I need to pee, and when I get back, I want you gone.”

  Chapter 19

  Will wasn’t going anywhere, but as he’d obviously already said a shitload of the wrong things, he stayed silent and stepped out of the way, allowing Millie past. He watched her disappear into the bedroom.

  Four hundred and ten. Four hundred and freaking ten. All he could think about was the damage it was doing to her eyes, her kidneys, and her heart. To her. He wanted to magic the number down and down fast and fix this, but he couldn’t. The fact ate at him, burrowing in like a dreaded tick.

  How often did her blood sugar spike like this? How many hours had it been so high? When had she last seen her endocrinologist? Surely there was a plan to avoid situations like this. What was her A1C? The unanswered questions went around and around and around in his head, and then Millie was back in the room.

  Her curls, usually so bouncy, sat limply on her head, and she looked nothing like his vivacious, energetic Millie. “I asked you to leave,” she said curtly.

  He smiled, shooting for conciliatory. “You don’t know me very well if you think I’d leave you alone with a blood sugar this high.”

  She stomped past him and shoved her feet into her sneakers. “The reality is that we don’t know each other very well at all. You only told me about Charlie because you had no choice.” She wrenched open the door and walked outside.

  He followed her, his temper rising. “Oh, and you’re Miss-Share-Everything? You’re a vault when it comes to your diabetes. Hell, you texted me to cancel the play without even mentioning it was because your blood sugar was out of control.”

  “It’s not out of control, and your behavior today is the perfect example of why I didn’t tell you.” She marched through the gate and out onto the street.

  His long strides easily caught him up with her. “So sue me for being worried about you.”

  “Worried?” Her eyes flashed every possible combination of green and brown. “I hear that a lot. I get it from my parents, from my endocrinologist and from everyone who knows I’m a diabetic, but what it really means is you think this spike is my fault. That the only possible way my blood sugar can be this high is because I’ve done something to cause it. Do you want to know what I did, Will?” Her voice shrieked then cracked.

  “I did exactly the same thing that I did yesterday and the day before and day before that when my numbers stayed in the perfect range.” She stopped suddenly, her chest rising and falling quickly as she caught her breath. “I wake up every morning a diabetic. It’s a life sentence without any chance of parole. I never get a day off from juggling food and calculating carbs, analyzing Dex’s data, fighting with the mail-order pharmacy and my insurance and working out insulin doses. Just a change in the brand or from cold to warm insulin can drop my blood sugar dramatically, and all the time I know that the drug I need to stay alive is the drug that can potentially kill me.”

  She suddenly sounded chronically exhausted and close to tears. “Some days, like today, my best efforts to keep my diabetes in check just aren’t enough. I’m a nurse and I’m going to be a doctor, so yeah, on paper it looks like I should be able to avoid spikes like this, but this disease doesn’t give a shit that I know stuff. This disease screws with me all of the time, and I don’t need you pinning guilt on me, Will. I’ve got enough of that all on my own.”

  Her despair pummele
d him, and he wrapped his arms around her, wishing he could change things for her. Knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing. He pressed a kiss into her hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty.”

  She met his gaze, her expression resigned. “No one ever does, but there’s always an assumption that I’m doing the wrong thing. Eating the wrong foods, not exercising, exercising too much, not bolusing insulin early enough. All of it infers that in some small way I’m to blame.” She pulled away from him and recommenced walking. “Once, that was true, but it hasn’t been like that in a long time.”

  She was in a pretty bad place. Ethan’s words had bothered him for a week. “How old were you when you were diagnosed?”

  “Old for type one diabetes. Sixteen.”

  He sucked in a breath. At sixteen, he and Charlie had just gained height, lost their braces, discovered girls, alcohol and parties. “That would have been a tough time.”

  She gave a tight laugh that said tough didn’t come close. “It was a triple threat. Take one chronic illness, add adolescent hormones and a desperate need to be just like everyone else, and BAM! No matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t like everyone else. I was suddenly the freak who had to stick myself with needles, and everything changed.

  “Mom and Dad went from being relaxed parents who said, Have a good time and Be home by ten to Do you have your insulin, fruit snacks, orange juice? and We’ll pick you up at ten. All the freedom and spontaneity went out of my life. I couldn’t just shove food in my mouth without thinking about it, and the town decided they’d”—she made air quotes—“help by doing useful things like swiping food out from under me, saying, You can’t eat that. Sugar will kill you.”

  “And I’m guessing Bethany led the charge,” he said, thinking it was the sort of tactless thing the woman would do.

  She shook her head. “Actually, Bethany was great. She’s got rheumatoid arthritis, so she knows what it’s like to live with a chronic illness. I know she’s difficult, but deep down under all that bristle she’s got a big heart.”