Page 51 of All This Time
“Let me ask you something.”
“Okay…”
“When’s the last time you let someone helpyou?” Just as the words leave Fletcher’s mouth, his hand covers mine, gently removing the organza bag from my fingers.
“Fletcher…” My throat grows tight because I’m startled by his observation.
Luckily, my glucose monitor app goes off before either of us can say anything else.
But it’s not just my phone that goes off. Fletcher’s also chimes from inside his pocket. He takes it out and looks at his screen. “Your blood sugar is too high. You need insulin.”
“Uh, how do you know that?” He flashes the screen to me where I see an account he’s made on the same app that I use. “What the…how did you…” I launch myself up from the table. “What in the actual hell, Fletcher?”
He stands up just as fast. “Can you please just give yourself insulin, Laney, so you don’t start getting loopy on me?”
“When the heck did you add yourself to my app?”
“While I was at your salon yesterday. You left your phone on your station when you went to grab a banana.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Wow. So you just took it upon yourself to…” I can’t even finish the sentence because my thoughts are spinning. “You—you have no right to—”
He presses a finger to my lips, silencing me. “I know I don’t. You’re right about that. But while I’m here, while we’re spending time together, I need to know that you’re taking care of yourself. Call it an old habit, but…”
I’m speechless, truly and utterly speechless. How the hell does he think that what he did was okay?
But more importantly, why is it making me want to cry?
Why does it make me feel seen and cared for?
And why do I like that so much?
“You know I can just delete you from my account, right?”
“I do. But I’ll just sign up again.”
Shaking my head at him, I reply, “I’ve never wanted to punch you more than I do right now.”
“Maybe you should do it just to see if it makes you feel better. Or, how about telling me why you started calling me Lucifer so I can fix it?”
“It’s not something that can be fixed,” I answer honestly.
“Let me be the judge of that.”
We stand there, in a silent standoff, waiting to see who will make a move first. But then the app chimes at me again.
Before he can say something else, I spin away from him and walk to the bathroom to administer the insulin through my pump in private. When I look at myself in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize the girl staring back at me.
My eyes are wild, my face flushed from anger, but my lips? I reach up and touch them—because feeling Fletcher’s finger on them earlier and again just now has them tingling in desperation for more of his touch.
Sighing, I take a few deep breaths, trying to get my blood pressure under control before I walk back out to face him. When I exit the bathroom, I find Fletcher pacing the living room, running his hand through his hair.
But I don’t say a word. I take my seat again at the table and hold out an organza bag toward him. “Let’s just finish this.”
Clearing his throat, he nods and then takes his seat back at the table, holding the bag open as I begin to fill it up with the candy. We sit in silence as we go through the motions, filling one bag after another. I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, but I don’t look at him once.
I’m too angry, too anxious, and there’s something else that I’m feeling—hope.
It’s that hope that him acting completely out of line is a sign that he still cares about me, even though I shouldn’t hope for that.
