Page 59 of Bottle Shock
His brows draw together. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s gone.” My laugh sounds sharp, almost hysterical. “Apparently, I didn’t make enough in the last twelve months to stay covered under my union plan, so they dropped me. Just like that. And my next possible job doesn’t start until October, so…” I wave a hand vaguely, “I’m screwed.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on me. “You’re telling me you don’t have insurance right now?”
“Pretty much.”
“And your medication?—”
“I was able to pay for insulin this month. I had to choose between that and the medication I take for my ADHD.” My voice shrinks to a whisper. “But after that, I don’t know.”
A silence settles between us, and what’s left hangs in the air. He looks like he’s still trying to make sense of what I’ve said, disbelief etched along the line of his jaw.
“What about your parents?” he asks carefully.“Would they be able to do anything?”
“They’d help,” I cut in quickly. “But I don’t want to ask. They’re finances are already stretched as it is, and they’ve been burdened by my illnesses for most of my life.” I shake my head. “I can’t do that to them.”
He nods slowly, absorbing that.
“And your union? No short-term coverage?”
“Not unless I start working again.” I huff out a bitter laugh. “It’s poetic, really. You have to work to live, but you can’t work unless you can afford to stay alive.”
He’s quiet for a beat, his jaw tightening. “Scottie, that’s not sustainable. You can’t go without your medications.”
“I know.” The words come out sharper than I mean them to. “Believe me, I’m aware. It’s just—” I drag in a shaky breath. “It’s terrifying. I feel like everything’s falling apart, and I don’t even have the right to panic about it because technically it’s my fault.”
“Hey.” He shifts closer. “You’re allowed to panic.”
The softness in his tone almost breaks me open again.
He studies me for a long moment, then lowers his voice. “Can I ask you something?”
I nod.
“How bad is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“With your diabetes,” he says quietly. “If you couldn’t afford insulin—what happens?”
I swallow hard. “Eventually? I’ll die. If I’m not hospitalized and given insulin, that’s it.”
His face pales.
“That would be a worst-case scenario,” I add quickly. “But insulin isn’t something I can stretch or skip. It’s not like coffee or rent.”
He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. “Jesus.”
His jaw works, like he’s fighting the urge to say something he’ll regret. I don’t know what to do with that—how the weight of his concern makes it hard to breathe.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “I always do. There are social media groups, support networks—there’s always someone out there willing to help.”
He looks unconvinced.
“I’ve got savings,” I lie. “A little. And once I start the show in Chicago, my coverage should restart the following month. Assuming I actually get the job.”
“The following month,” he repeats flatly.
