39. Fallon

Iremain in my seat when the boat engine cuts. We’re far enough out that the shore can’t be seen. The others file around, planning to go out on tubes and swim.

Regret eddies in my stomach, souring the morning coffee we’d picked up on our way to the marina. I was naive to think Kelly would get over Corey so quickly.

As if my thoughts have beckoned her, Kelly stops in front of me, offering me a bottle of colorful, fruit-flavored alcohol.

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

“Come on. It will be fun. I won’t let you drown. I swear.” She pushes the icy bottle so close to my chest that goosebumps erupt over my skin. “Plus, I need you to break out of your shell so you can help me with Corey.” She glances at where he’s standing next to Pops, Palmer, and Callum, the guy I’d briefly met in my dorm that night Corey was drunk, and again this morning when we picked him up at a nearby house. “I think I’m going to ask him to go get a drink after this. What do you think?”

A dozen objections get stuck in my throat. Instead, I say, “I don’t really know what’s going on to weigh in.”

Kelly sits beside me and twists to look at Corey. “God, he’s so hot. I just want to lick every inch of him. Do you see those abs? That chest? The freaking bulge in his pants?” She groans.

My fingernails stamp crescents into my palm, proof of my jealousy, anger, and guilt at war. I hate that she’s looking at him, hate that she’s objectifying him publicly, though I want to do everything she just said and so much more in the privacy of a hotel room or in the back of a car—anywhere I could get him alone.

A scream echoes, turning everyone’s attention to Aiko as she jumps back. Liquid drips down her face and chest as she holds an opened can that is still oozing foam. She swipes a hand over her face and then turns a lethal stare at Nolan. I know that look. She’s directed it at me more than once. “Nolan, I swear to God if you…” Her threat fades as Pops moves to her side.

I attempt to read the dynamics as Brent moves closer to Aiko and Corey shifts closer to Nolan.

Nolan lifts both hands. “I didn’t touch the cooler or any of the drinks,” he tells her, voice calm, considering the malice in hers. “I’ve never made a move against you or your team.”

“Yet,” Hadley adds, moving to his side and wrapping an arm around his waist.

Nolan shifts his weight, preparing to intercede if anything turns south.

Aiko doesn’t acknowledge Hadley, keeping her stare trained on Nolan.

Kelly sighs. “Why is there always drama?” She stands and moves closer to the group. “It was probably the rough waves. My stomach was feeling the same way for a minute. Come on. We’ll dive in and clean you off. It’s hot anyway.” Turning to Corey, she places a hand on his bare chest, and it feels like she just stuck a knife through me in the same spot she’s touching him. “Want to join us?”

“Yeah. Let’s all jump in,” Palmer says, pulling his shirt off and tossing it on the driver’s seat. “Come on, Fallon,” Palmer says, taking three long steps before making a bracelet around my wrist with one large hand. “You have two seconds to decide if you want to leave your clothes on board or dive in with them.”

“Give me a minute,” I say, slipping my hand out of his grip. I grab my bag from under my seat and feel a heated gaze on my back as I try to remove my insulin pump discreetly.

“Dude. What the hell is that? Is that like a mega nicotine patch?” Lenny asks.

Most days, I’m immune to embarrassment from stupid and inappropriate questions regarding my diabetic equipment.

Most days.

My gaze drops to where Lenny’s staring at the small sliver of my exposed stomach.

Kelly pivots to investigate, too.

I glance toward Corey, whose gaze is locked on me.

“Don’t be a goon. That’s an insulin pump,” Hadley says, elbowing Lenny.

“Insulin pump?” Lenny echoes.

Explaining that I have diabetes is rarely a fast conversation and is almost always followed by questions, generally about what I’m allowed to eat and if I previously ate too much sugar. But Lenny merely shrugs and then jumps off the boat, causing it to rock violently.

I catch myself on the seat as others work to maintain their balance.

“Off the back, asshole!” Pops yells before Lenny surfaces.

Kelly straightens, rubbing at her side, where she collided with the driver’s seat. She clears her throat and takes a step closer to me. “What’s an insulin pump?”

I disconnect the tubing from the site where a narrow tube remains under my skin and hold up the small, ridiculously expensive gadget that keeps me healthy and alive. “It’s the rough draft of an external pancreas,” I tell her. “I have type one diabetes, so my body can’t produce beta cells or insulin.” I nod toward my pump. “This injects it into my body so I can process sugar.”

“My brother’s diabetic,” Hadley says. “Type one,” she adds.

“Is it serious?” Kelly looks worried and slightly uncomfortable. I know her broad question is whether I’ll be okay. If I won’t.

“It’s serious, but I’m healthy. I can do everything anyone else can,” I shrug. “I just sometimes need a juice box or two while doing it.”

Relief slips over her features as she rattles out an obligatory laugh, but there’s still a note of hesitance she doesn’t voice.

“It’s not contagious or anything,” I add, addressing the second most popular question I receive.

Hadley shakes her head, visibly irate. “People ask if you’re contagious?”

More times than I can count, but before I can glaze over that can of worms, I notice most of the group is still on the boat, listening closely. Corey continues staring at me, conflict visible in his caramel eyes.

Panic fills my stomach with helium.

This conversation never gets easier, and the weight of judgment never gets lighter.

“People are such assholes,” Hadley says, drawing my attention back to her. She has dark hair that brushes just past her shoulders and icy blue eyes. She’s stunning, all of the women on the boat are, including Kelly and Aiko.

I force a grin. She’s not entirely wrong. “They don’t know. Most aren’t aware that there are multiple types of diabetes.”

“Are there things you can’t eat?” Brent asks.

I shake my head. “No. But there are things I choose not to eat at certain times. Cereal is kind of my nemesis.”

He stares at me, waiting for me to explain my cryptic response.

“I don’t eat or drink super sugary things unless I’m going low, and if my blood sugar is trending higher, I avoid carbs until I start dropping.”

“You can go high and low?” Kelly asks.

“I’m a full act.” I give her a broad smile, hoping the dose of humor will wash away the last of her hesitation. Instead, she steals a look at Aiko, who’s currently stripping off her damp shirt.

“Come on. The last one in has to do twenty pain shuttles,” Aiko announces, moving to the back of the boat. “That includes you guys.” I think she’s looking at Brent, but everyone seems to accept the threat and begins shedding off clothing.

I don’t hurry. Regret is an impenetrable weight on my shoulders as I consider all the times I could have told Corey about my disease. I hate this obligation.

Doctors still don’t know what caused me to contract diabetes. I went from being healthy and energetic to barely being able to jog across the soccer pitch in just a few weeks. Unquenchable thirst and blurred vision were my next symptoms, followed by stomach cramps that worsened by the day.

My pediatrician diagnosed me with the flu, encouraging extra fluids—an easy feat considering all I wanted to do was drink. Mom took me back the following week when my stomachache worsened, but they insisted the flu was wiping kids out.

By the following week, I was so fatigued I could hardly get out of bed. My parents took me to urgent care, where my life turned upside down with a rare diagnosis none of my friends or family were familiar with: an incurable disease that has more questions than answers and requires constant injections and medical equipment my parents couldn’t afford.

“Don’t make me push you in fully clothed,” Kelly warns me.

My chest warms, appreciating her sticking to my side. I shuck off my shorts and shove them along with my pump and shirt into my waterproof bag, and follow her to the back of the boat.

Brent offers his hand to help me step over the seats. His palm is warm against mine, but I don’t linger long enough to absorb any additional details. I move to the end of the boat and slide into the ocean as I’ve wanted to do since May when coming here for Adelaide’s bridal shower.

The ocean licks at my body and has me smiling like a kid in a candy store as relief and rightness soak into my skin.

As the others jump in, there are shrieks and laughter as some acclimate to the cool water, while others dive deep, and a few argue about who was last.

A Nerf football soars over my head, and Callum and Palmer race to catch it, splashing and shoving each other underwater.

Kelly wades to my side. “You know, you could have told me.”

I stare at her, unsure how to respond without risking offending her. I’ve always wondered if others who have chronic conditions feel obliged to explain themselves to others. It’s a strange position, one I’ve never favored because of the many times people have treated this disease like it’s a threat to them or set me apart, and as much as I loathe admitting it, it sometimes does make me different.

I smirk. “You know this won’t change anything, right? I’ll still beat you every day in conditioning.”

Her smile is a tight purse of her lips. “I’m serious, though. We’re friends. I’m here for you.”

Her sincerity twists that dagger in my chest.