Page 58 of Bottle Shock
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You may want to check if you qualify for continuation coverage or marketplace insurance in the meantime.”
“Yeah, I’ll look into that,” I say, deadpan. I already tried—it was a bust.
When the line disconnects, the silence hits like a slap.
My throat tightens as I cup my face in my hands, trying to breathe through it. It doesn’t work. The tears come anyway—hot, sharp, and humiliating.
I literally can’t afford to stay alive.
I can go without ADHD meds—it’s not fun, but I can survive. What Ican’tsurvive without is the one thing my body refuses to make: insulin. Every day, I fight to stay alive against a body designed to kill me. Sure, I could afford it this month—but what about next month? Or the one after that? What if this job falls through and my insurance never comes back? It’s overwhelming, trying to figure out how I’m supposed to stay alive without someone’s help.
I sink into the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest.
Tears blur everything but my own shaking hands. The edges of the room start to dissolve as I slip deeper into panic. I should’ve been more prepared. Built a bigger savings. Worked more jobs. Maybe picked a career that didn’t hinge on luck and timing. I should’ve?—
A heavy knock cuts through the spiral.
I freeze.
Through the glass door, Gavin’s shape comes into focus. He’s standing on the front porch, one hand resting on the frame.
I swipe at my face, but it’s useless. I probably look as awful as I feel, and there’s no pretending otherwise.
When I open the door, his eyes immediately find mine. He takes in the blotchy cheeks, the crumpled tissue, the way my lip quivers despite my best effort to hold it together. His face changes in an instant, his expression shifting into immediate concern.
“Hey.” His voice is low and careful, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “What’s wrong?”
And that’s all it takes.
The sob I’ve been holding in breaks free before I can stop it.
I collapse into him, colliding with the solid strength of his chest. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I don’t think I’ve ever been held by someone strong enough to shoulder everything I’ve been trying to carry alone.
I’m not sure how long I stay there—long enough for the hiccups to start, for the tears to leave cold trails down my neck. Gavin doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just lets me cling to him like I’m trying to keep from unraveling completely.
When I finally pull back, I’m embarrassed by the wet patch on his shirt. “Sorry,” I mumble, swiping at my face again. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“Hey.” He catches my wrist gently, forcing me to look up. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I’m sure you weren’t expecting to have to comfort a crying mess,” I manage, trying for a laugh that doesn’t land.
He studies me for a long moment, his brow furrowed. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”
It’s such a simple question, one I want to brush off. He doesn’t look away, and something in that stillness comes undone. I want to lie. I really do. But I can’t seem to get the wordsI’m finepast my lips.
“No.” The word cracks on its way out. “Not really.”
He nods once, accepting that as an answer for now. Then, quietly, “Can I come in?”
I step aside, still sniffling, and he shuts the door behind him. The pool house seems to close in around us. Maybe it’s his height, or the breadth of his shoulders, but the air thickens the way it always does when I let myself get too close to him.
“Talk to me,” he says gently. “Tell me what’s going on?”
I sink back onto the couch, curling into the corner like I can make myself smaller. “It’s nothing. I just—had a phone call with my insurance.”
He waits, silent. “And?”
“And they basically told me I don’t have any.”
