Page 65 of Salty, Spiced, and a Little Bit Nice

“Of course.” He gave me a warm smile. “I think you’re really cool. I’m so glad we met.”

“Thanks.” I stopped myself from singing him the same praise.

Mike dumped a spoonful of chili sauce on his chicken, his smile growing bigger. “You know, I’m a strong believer that we don’t meet people by accident. Our paths crossed for a higher reason. Both my brothers got married in their midtwenties, and they were already expecting their second child at my age. Clearly I have to make up for lost time, don’t I?”

I blinked at him once, then twice. The alarm became louder, and suddenly it seemed like spending two hours in the car withAlec and faking the role of his girlfriend in front of Jacqui wasn’t such a terrible idea.

Did I hear him right? Was he implying that our paths crossed because we were meant to be together? After two (non) dates?

First George, now him. What the hell was wrong with these men?

I should at least give him the benefit of the doubt.Maybe I was getting ahead of myself and unnecessarily jumping to incorrect conclusions.

I reached for my pump to bolus for my food, only to remember that my insulin reservoir was running low. I was rushing this morning and didn’t have time to change my pump site before leaving, so I’d have to revert to using an insulin pen for now.

“Sounds like you’re close with your siblings.” I took out the small pouch that always lived in my bag, filled with my insulin pen, my glucose meter, and a bunch of test strips. I chose a new sterile needle, attached it to the insulin pen and primed it, then checked my levels on my CGM app. “Does your family live in Port Benedict too?”

“Whoa.” Mike recoiled, his eyes going wide. “What are you doing? What’s that?”

I’d forgotten he’d never seen me do this. The last time we went for coffee, he didn’t even notice me bolusing with the pump. “I should’ve explained.” I gave him an apologetic smile. “It’s an insulin pen. I have type 1 diabetes. I need to take insulin before any meals, so my blood sugar doesn’t skyrocket. The insulin in my pump is running low, so the pen is my backup.”

“Diabetes?You’re what, twenty-three, twenty-four? How can you have diabetes already?” Mike stared at me, his mouth gaping open. “What, have you been eating too much sweet stuff your whole life?”

The alarm was now blaring louder than a police siren. I recapped the pen, preparing myself for a lengthy explanation. “It has nothing to do with eating sweet stuff. More to do with the fact that my pancreas isn’t producing any insulin.”

Mike raised one skeptical eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure about that?”

“One hundred percent positive.” I gave him a sweet, syrupy smile. “Would you like a full medical explanation on how my pancreas stopped working?”

“No, thanks.” He scrunched up his nose with distaste. “My grandpa is also diabetic, but he said it’s probably because he practically lived on Coke and junk food when he was young. He’s never had to do any injections though, so yours must be really bad.”

If I had a dollar for every time I had to explain this to people. “That’s because your grandpa is a type 2, and they don’t always require insulin injections. Whereas someone with type 1, like me, is insulin-dependent for life. This,” I pointed at my pen, “is a lifesaving device.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re exaggerating.”

This guy was stretching my patience. “I wish I was, but I’m not. Insulin is an essential hormone. Since my body can’t produce any, if I don’t have these injections, I couldn’t survive.”

Mike let out a disbelieving scoff. “Come on, that sounds so dramatic. So you can’t eat sweet stuff, right? No big deal. You won’t die from it or anything.”

“Actually, if my blood sugar drops very low, I could lose consciousness and die. Or the opposite, if it stays too high for too long, I could die as well.”

“Shit.” He blew out a long breath. “Glad it isn’t me. I think that’s enough medical lecture for today. I’m gonna start eating before it gets cold.”

I’d lost my appetite, along with my interest in this so-calledlunch date. The only reason I still tolerated him was because I needed to have something to eat, otherwise my glucose level might dip. I uncapped the insulin pen again. “Go ahead. I’ll just do this first.”

Mike shuddered. “Can you do that somewhere else? I hate needles.”

“I’m doing it under the table.” I was gritting my teeth. “You won’t see anything.”

“But I still know you are.” He was cringing, waving his hands as if shooing me away. “Seriously, I can’t stand them. Go do it in the toilet or something.”

What an asshole.

I strongly considered throwing the contents of the teapot in his face, but I didn’t want to make a scene. Although his reaction didn’t surprise me, because this wasn’t the first time someone had had a strong reaction to my using an insulin pen. An older man once saw me doing it in a restaurant and told me that it was disgusting and inappropriate to do in public, and that I should go to the bathroom instead. Then he called the restaurant manager on me.

But I knew it wasn’t worth my time and energy to pay attention to people like that elderly man or Mike. I could be frothing at the mouth trying to explain to them about my condition, but if they refused to open their mind and listen to my explanation, then there was nothing else I could do to change their minds.

And at the end of the day, their opinion didn’t really matter to me.

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