Page 122 of Love Me

“I’m fine,” I say a little more forcefully than intended. “Sorry. I promise to tell you if I feel off. Please, let’s go to the fair.”

When he finally nods, I release a breath in relief. While I am a little concerned as well, I don’t want to put this off.

“It’ll be okay,” I tell him. But I’m certain we both know it’s to assure me more than him.

* * *

Diego

I keep a close eye on Monique as she talks with one of the artists at today’s fair. The woman’s paintings are appealing enough, but I’ve barely been able to keep my attention on anything except for Monique.

Her and my phone. Her numbers keep dipping.

In the two hours we’ve been at the fair, she’s had to drink one of the cartons of orange juice, and then have a half of one of the granola bars she brought with her. Even though she’s not hungry at all. When she eats her numbers rise again, but within a short amount of time they take another dip.

This isn’t usual. I know it and so does she. Though I can see her trying to downplay it and keep a straight face. I don’t know if it’s for me or for her. I want to tell her she doesn’t need to be strong for me.

It’s my job to be strong for her.

But I don’t want to take away from the happiness she’s having meeting the artists and looking over their works. Under different circumstances, I’d be right there with her.

However, her well-being takes precedence over everything.

My instinct tells me to take another look at my phone. Her numbers have dropped even more. I don’t know what’s happening but I don’t like it.

“Hey,” I say, placing my hand on the small of her back. “I think you need to sit down for a bit. You might need to do an adjustment,” I say low so she’s the only one who hears me. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

She nods. “Yeah, but my numbers …” She doesn’t finish the sentence, but I already know what she’s thinking.

The device that helps to keep her alive tells her that something inside of her body is off. The machine is reliable ninety-nine percent of the time. This could be that one percent where it’s off.

Yet, I’m not willing to take that chance, not with her.

“Listen, I know you’re going to hate me for saying this, but may we need to leave early. Tomorrow’s the last day of the fair. We can come back in the morning before we head home.”

She scans the area surrounding us. There are rows and rows of artists. Many of whom she hasn’t gotten a chance to see yet.

“Not all of them will be here tomorrow,” she tells me.

I manage to control my voice as much as possible when I reply, “Anyone worth visiting you will come across tomorrow or some other time. Right now, we have to take care of you.”

I don’t wait for her to reply. Taking her hand in mine, I start to lead us toward the parking lot and back to the car. It’s a twenty-minute drive from the fair to our hotel.

Before we leave, I hand her one of the cartons of orange juice. She drinks it with an almost tortured look on her face.

I take her hand in mine and kiss her palm. We wait for fifteen minutes, and then do an injection instead of opting for one of the granola bars I keep on hand in my glove compartment.

I’ve made sure to bring enough food to keep on hand for her to eat a proper meal in case we need it. She eats some multigrain crackers and cheese with a side of sliced vegetables as her meal.

“Okay,” she says after she swallows the last bite.

By the time we get back to the hotel, her numbers look strange. Though she’s recently done an injection, her insulin levels are dropping.

“Sit down,” I insist when Monique starts pacing our suite.

She keeps telling me that she feels fine. Slightly off, but nothing serious. Nothing that would warrant the readout of her insulin numbers.

“Maybe I did the injection wrong,” she says, a note of worry lacing her voice.

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