The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)

Then a friendly smile burst over his face. “Good to meet you, Miller. Beer?”

“No, thanks.”

My hands were shaking again, and my watch was showing a 70. Still too low. I went to the kitchen, my skin breaking out in a cold sweat.

“You’re home late,” Mom called from the couch.

“I went to Vi’s after work.”

“Miller works at the Boardwalk,” Mom said, and I heard the flick of a lighter and an inhale off a cigarette.

“Ah, a carny, eh?” Chet chuckled.

“He works at one of the biggest arcades down there,” Mom said, managing a smile for me. “Just promoted to assistant manager.”

I opened the fridge, my trembling hands reaching for an orange juice. My meal plan required I keep a stockpile of certain foods and drinks at all times, and we had to do it on a threadbare budget. I wasn’t as good as Vi about keeping my shit in order, but there were five bottles of juice this morning before work and now there were only three.

I plucked one from the shelf and shut the door. “What the hell?”

Mom frowned. “What the hell, what?”

I held up the juice “I’m short two.”

“I might’ve had a couple today,” Chet said, his eyes never leaving mine. “Didn’t know you were keeping count.”

I gave Mom a What the fuck? glare.

“Miller has to count everything,” she explained. “He has diabetes.”

“Yeah, I do. I’d have thought she might’ve mentioned that to you, Chet.”

Like, immediately, so you don’t eat and drink all the shit I need to live.

“My bad, buddy. Won’t happen again.”

He smiled at Mom, and she smiled back. It’d been a long time since I’d seen that smile—almost happy. The kind of happy that comes from not being alone anymore and no other reason.

I swigged my juice, one hand planted on the fridge door to keep me steady.

“Feeling okay? Your CGM went off a while ago.” Mom tapped her fingers on a smartphone—an old model, several generations behind the newest—from amid the crap on the coffee table.

“I’m aware,” I said, trying—and failing—to take the bite out of my words.

Before I had the CGM, I needed to fingerstick every two hours, twenty-four hours a day. Mom being my mom was supposed to set her alarm and check on me at night. Two trips to the ER in three months, I learned to set my own alarm. Mom was sleeping through hers and shutting them off in a half-sleep.

I couldn’t blame her. She worked two jobs to keep us afloat, and my diagnosis required more time and energy than she had to spare since my pancreas had decided to close up shop: Out of insulin. Come back never.

I’d learned pretty damn quick that when it came to taking care of my diabetes, I was on my own.

Except for Violet. The hospital could’ve sent her to me…

But they didn’t and that’s life.

I drank half of the juice and tucked the bottle in my backpack and slung it and my guitar case over my shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Mom called as I headed for the door.

“Out.”