Truly Madly Montana
Page 29
“If you say so.” He reached for her hand, and she closed her fingers around his. “So back to you?”
“Me?”
“Learning to live with diabetes?”
“Oh, that.” She scrunched up her mouth and her nose wriggled. “For the first year, I wanted my old life back so bad I did everything my endocrinologist and my diabetes educator told me to do. I was like this goody-two-shoes, born-again diabetic. It made no difference to my blood sugar, which continued to fluctuate wildly. I was admitted to the hospital three times.”
“Your mum mentioned that.” The moment the words left his mouth, he knew he’d said the wrong thing.
Horror instantly combined with anger, tightening her cheeks. “You’ve been talking to my mother about me?”
“No.” Her brows shot up fast, vanishing under her curls, and he hastily qualified, “Not really. One morning, she saw me leaving the guesthouse and she volunteered the information.”
“Great,” she said flatly.
He tried redirecting the conversation. “When did you get your first pump?”
“The following year when I went to college. Mom and Dad weren’t happy about me being so far from home, but I convinced them the pump would solve everything, and we were all desperate to believe it. It didn’t, and I was still having crazy swings, and then one day in a lecture about diabetes, they put up a list of things that affected blood sugar.
“Something inside me snapped. I wanted to stand up and scream at them that instead of the list they only needed one word. Life. Every damn thing that happens to me throughout the day affects my blood sugar. Being hot or being cold affects it. My monthly cycle totally screws with it, and today’s a case in point. After that lecture, I was all Screw you, diabetes, and I started doing what every normal young adult at college does.”
He thought about his early years at university. “Partied?”
“Oh yeah,” she said, her mouth now a grim line. “I partied and I partied hard, because what was the point of doing everything right when none of it made a damn bit of difference?”
But he knew drinking alcohol would have made a huge difference to her blood sugar. To her health in general. The increasingly familiar dread that trickled through him whenever he thought about her diabetes intensified.
How long did you do this for? “But you don’t drink now?”
“No.”
Her sharp tone spoke volumes. She didn’t want to tell him, but he already knew bits and pieces, and he wanted to be able to connect the dots. “What changed?”
She tossed her head defiantly. “Almost dying makes a girl reevaluate her options.”
His generalized fear for her coalesced into something far more real, and he stopped walking. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”
She gave him a sad smile. “So am I, and I thank Ethan every day that he had the presence of mind to know something was wrong. He called 911 and got me to the hospital.”
“And?” Getting information out of her was like pulling teeth.
She glanced down at her feet before meeting his gaze. “I went into acute kidney failure and was in the ICU for a week.”
Kidney failure. Kidney. Failure. No matter how he said the words in his head, nothing changed their significance.
She stroked his face. “Don’t look so alarmed, Will. I’m fine.”
He didn’t believe her. “So how’s your kidney function now?”
She sucked in her lips.
“Millie?” He heard the rumble in his voice he only ever used with difficult students and interns.
“I have some mild residual damage,” she said quickly, “but it’s all good and the labs prove it. I’m fit and healthy and careful with what I eat.”
“That’s great,” he managed to say despite the thoughts careening around his brain. You’re diabetic and that’s a risk factor all on its own. And what about babies? Pregnancy and diabetes is a lethal weapon for kidneys.
Whoa! Stop right there.
What the hell was he doing thinking about babies? Before Charlie died, he’d only ever thought about kids in an abstract way—a vague possibility, or not, far out in the future. Since Charlie’s death, he didn’t think about the future at all, because planning was pointless when everything could be lost in a heartbeat.
I’m just thinking about babies in relation to Millie’s future, not mine.
He thought he heard Charlie laugh.
“And we’re back.” She pulled her hand out of his, and he realized they’d power walked around the block. He followed her inside the guesthouse, where she waved Dex at him. “Yay, it’s finally falling.”
It was still too high for his liking. “You don’t want to keep walking?”
She shook her head. “No. It can sit high for hours, but once it starts to fall, it tumbles fast. Now the challenge is to eat the right foods at the right time to stop a crashing hypo, so that’s my night in a nutshell. If you leave now, you can still catch the start of the play.”
“I don’t care about the damn play, Millie,” he said roughly, reaching for her. “I care about you.”
She stilled, staring up at him, her beautiful eyes large in her pale face and brimming with emotion. “I care about you, too.”
Her softly spoken words sent a slither of something close to uneasy agitation through him, and then it was gone.
FOUR hours later, Will lay in bed wide-awake with Millie asleep, her head on his chest. As she breathed in and out, her hair tickled his face, and he watched her. After the earlier pallor of her cheeks, they now had a healthy rosy bloom on them, and Dex, which he held in his hand, was showing a very satisfying one hundred.
They’d watched DVDs on the sofa, punctuated by Millie testing her blood sugar, counting carbs, eating, swearing, bolusing insulin and then eating again. Wrung out by the residual effects of the high blood sugar, she’d fallen asleep early. He should be taking advantage of an early night, too, and usually lying in bed cuddled up to Millie with her soft and generous body scooped into his, he fell asleep fast and slept soundly.
Not tonight. Tonight his brain just wouldn’t shut up.
Trying not to wake Millie, he eased out of bed. She gave a gentle snore and rolled over, her hair a slash of brightness against the white pillowcase. An unbidden image of her head on a stark, white hospital pillow loomed large in his mind, and suddenly her face became Charlie’s. He rubbed the tightness in his chest and padded out to the kitchen, making himself a mug of tea.
He sat down at the table to drink it and noticed Millie’s laptop was open. He automatically reached out and touched the trackpad. The screen flickered to life open on the uploaded data from her CGM. The numbers stared at him. She’d always been tight-lipped about her blood sugar numbers. Despite the couple of exercise-induced hypos she’d had, which were pretty normal for a diabetic, and given how organized she was, he’d always assumed until today that her numbers were mostly good.
She’s not your patient. Charlie’s voice wafted through his head. Mate, you’re not seriously going to look at that.
“That’s rich coming from you,” he muttered. “You thought rules existed to be broken.”
I never breached confidentiality.
“I’m trying to help.”
He scrolled through the data looking for patterns. She’d been stable through the winter and the spring with a regular spike once a month, but since the start of June there’d been some crazy swings. Swings that had nothing to do with her normal monthly spike. Was it the new job?
Sure, there was stress associated with learning new things, but she’d worked as an RN for a few years, so what she was doing now was not a hell of a lot different.
Some days, like today, my best efforts to keep my diabetes in check just aren’t enough.
He stared at the figures, looking for clues, and his gut suddenly rolled. He’d arrived in Bear Paw in June.
He immediately ruled that out as being the cause, although there was an echo in his head about the
human body’s cocktail of massive hormone changes that took place when a person was attracted to someone. Lust changed body chemistry.
Life. Every damn thing affects my blood sugar.
Kidney failure.
He slapped the laptop closed against the accusatory numbers. Millie was a ticking time bomb, and it scared him senseless.
“THANKS, ladies,” Tara said, holding up a drink bottle. “You’ve all worked really hard and it’s hot tonight, so make sure you hydrate.”
The women murmured their thanks and drifted away, chatting animatedly to one another. It was the third class she’d taught, and word was spreading. There were at least two new women at each class.
“Great session, Tara,” Millie said, her face bright red as she gulped down some orange juice. “Once summer’s over and school is back, you’ll be turning people away.”
“Or adding another class.”
“Would you have time for that?”
She shrugged. “The sheriff will be back on the schedule by then, so it’s doable.”
Millie’s brow creased in a slight frown. “That wouldn’t leave you with any downtime.”
“I like to keep busy.”
“Remember to factor in some fun,” Millie said, picking up her towel. “And talking about fun, you must come to my ‘Millie goes to Seattle’ party. I start classes in August, so it’s coming up fast.”
“Oh.” A rush of disappointment hit her. She’d gotten to know Millie, and she really liked her. She hadn’t realized she’d be leaving town so soon. “That’s early.”
“Yeah,” she said on a sigh. “This year it’s too early.”
“I’ll miss you.”
Millie’s dimples carved into her cheeks. “Thank you, but I’ll be back at Christmas and again next summer. Meanwhile, if you want a coffee buddy, you’ve always got Ethan. He’s got so many diverse interests that fascinating conversation’s guaranteed.”
The complicated tangle that was her emotions for Ethan tightened. “I guess.”
“By the way, I saw the tweet you sent on the Fourth,” Millie said with a knowing look. “Nice touch, and Bethany and Judy re-tweeted it.”
“I thought it made a change from the usual funniest home video type,” she said briskly.
“It’s okay to like him.”
“Of course I like him,” she said, shoving her towel in her gym bag. “He’s been very welcoming and helpful.”
Millie hooted with laughter. “Oh, Tara, I saw the look on your face when you danced with him at the street party and again on the Fourth. There’s a spark there, and although it’s none of my business why you’re holding back, if that sort of chemistry had ever flowed between me and Eth, I’d have snapped him up years ago.”
“So there’s no spark at all on either side?” she heard herself asking while her brain screamed, Shut up! Shut up!
“None at all.” Millie gave an embarrassed smile. “Once, years ago when I was at a party and I’d drunk too much, I suggested we try, but even then I knew it wouldn’t work. Eth being Eth kindly said no and in the process saved our friendship and both of us from excruciating embarrassment.
“I do love him, though, as a dear, dear friend, and I owe my life to him,” she volunteered with unexpected candor. “He’s special in so many ways, and I mean really good special, not weird special. He’s the sort of guy who’d lay down his life protecting you while doing the dishes. Most women are too busy fantasizing about some alpha-macho guy who swoops in, guns blazing, and they totally miss the value in Ethan’s kind of loyalty.”
Tara’s skin prickled under Millie’s probing look. “I really don’t need protecting,” she said curtly and snapped her mouth shut before she added, You know he could kill someone with one well-placed kick to the head. She hated how Millie’s words had stirred up all her confusing feelings for Ethan, and she wanted the conversation to stop now. “I need to lock up.”
“Sure,” Millie said, rolling up her floor mat and walking to the door. As she pulled it open, she paused. “Tara, no self-respecting twenty-first-century woman needs protecting, but it’s kinda nice when someone loves you, cheers for you and has your back. Good night.”
Tara watched Millie disappear out into the bright evening light, saw the door bang shut behind her and then was alone in the empty gym. It didn’t bother her—she was used to being alone. Given a choice, she often chose her own company over people, because she didn’t let herself down. She didn’t cheat, use, abuse or betray herself.
Millie hasn’t done any of those things.
Neither has Ethan.
For the thousandth time since the night of the Fourth of July, she thought about how he’d silenced the PTSD-inducing noise of the fireworks for her with music. How he’d wordlessly accepted her fear and found a practical way to help her deal with a tough situation, and in the process she’d avoided falling apart. He’d held her close and absorbed her initial flinches, provided agenda-free comfort, and then, the moment the last bang had vibrated the air and faded to nothing, he’d let her go. Not once in all their time together had he tried anything. He was her kickboxing partner, an occasional sharer of pizza and her key to finding her feet in small-town life.
He’s my friend.
The thought shocked her. She didn’t have many friends, and of those few people, none were men. Tim had been her lover and then her husband before becoming a lying, cheating betrayer, but he’d never been a friend. The men she worked with in the military were colleagues, not friends. A few weeks ago she’d have considered a platonic friendship with a man an impossible miracle.
It still is.
Millie was right. Nothing about her feelings for Ethan were platonic, but she didn’t know how Ethan felt about her. She was used to overt displays of attraction from men—being undressed by their eyes, the come on, baby swagger of their hips, the not-so-casual brushes of their arms across her chest and the crudeness of their language when they told her what they wanted to do with her. None of it required a moment of puzzling out or interpretation.
The only times Ethan had touched her were with brief displays of support. Other than that, he was more restrained than the boys she’d known in middle school. God, they hadn’t even kissed. She couldn’t work him out. He was always friendly, always interested in her, always obliging, and yet he didn’t take any crap and had on occasions pulled her up when he thought she was being difficult.
Duh! That’s what a friend does.
Only, there’d been that one time after the fireworks when she wondered if he felt more for her than friendship. He’d looked at her, and his eyes, the rich, warm color of polished oak, had held a lick of heat, and he’d said, You always have a choice, Tara.
And then the moment had vanished and in the week and a half since had never been repeated.
You always have a choice. She’d replayed those words over and over in her head until she’d driven herself mad. She couldn’t ever remember dithering. Decisions were her strong point, and she’d made a lot of them across the years. Some of them had saved her life. But this decision, this choice, was Sophie’s choice—no choice at all. She’d rather pick up her weapon and take on a sniper than take on the emotional risk that both sides of this choice commanded.
ETHAN was mulling over his next move on Chess with Friends—his father was currently winning—and staring into the fridge. His current wish was that the contents would just mysteriously combine into something edible and bounce right into his hand. The pealing chimes of the doorbell made him start.
“Come in, it’s open,” he called, pulling two beers off the shelf, anticipating whoever the unexpected company was, he’d stay for a drink. He closed the fridge and looked up. One bottle slipped out of his hand.
Tara caught it and set it on the table. “Hello, Ethan,” she said in her no-nonsense, throaty voice, her gaze direct as ever.
His shock at seeing her standing in his kitchen instantly morphed into fear. “What’s happened? Who’s hurt?”
Relief swamped him. “Right. Of course. Sorry. Drink?” He handed her the beer she’d caught.
“Thanks.” She took it and quickly spun off the top before tossing the cap neatly into the trash. She sat down at the table.
He did the same, but his thoughts were stuck on Tara’s in my house. Tara’s in my kitchen. It was the first time either of them had been in the other’s home.
He realized it was his turn to talk. “Good day?”
“Yes.” Her long, shapely left leg bounced up and down, tension washing off it in waves.
Usually after exercising she was relaxed—well, as relaxed as Tara was able to be. She always had an air of alertness about her that he figured was a constant because of her childhood and her time in the military. But she wasn’t relaxed now, and she wasn’t talking. That was odd, because if Tara had something to say, she just said it without preamble, coming straight to the point. He liked her directness, but it seemed to have deserted her tonight.
He smiled and offered her an opening. “I’m gathering you didn’t stop by just for idle chitchat.”
Her blue green eyes instantly snapped to his. “Are you attracted to me in any way?”
The unexpected question caught him mid-swallow, and he inhaled beer. Gasping and coughing, he struggled to empty his windpipe of fluid and pull in a breath.
Horror streaked across her face as she jumped to her feet, hitting him hard on the back. “Ethan. God, breathe. Do I need to call the EMS?”
He held up his hand, wheezing in and out—the sound not dissimilar to a strangled whistle. Eventually, the fire in his lungs eased, his breathing settled and he cleared his throat. He’d spent weeks sublimating his desire for Tara so as not to pressure her like the other bastards in her life had done. So as not to give her any excuse to run. Had he slipped up? Had she noticed something? Was she upset?
He glanced up at her. “Is there a right or wrong answer to that question?”
She swallowed, and all his blood left his brain. “Tara?”