Read Online Love Me for Me by Kate Laurens - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kate Laurens
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straight up from his attentions. "Sit."
I shook my head and stayed right where I was.
He heaved a sigh, then stood. "Don't go anywhere." He disappeared through the entry to the kitchen, then returned with a small drawstring bag.
Opening it, he began to pull out items, placing them one by one on the coffee table, naming them as he did.
"Blood glucose monitor. test strips. Finger poker. Syringes. Fast acting insulin. Slow acting insulin. Glucagon." Having emptied the bag, he sat on the couch again, this time perching on the edge, his hands clasped together.
I squinted at the pile of items. I wasn't familiar with most of them, but one word had caught my attention.
"Insulin? You're diabetic?" I eyed the man who was at least six foot three, most of it muscle. He was one of the healthiest looking people I’d ever met, and I told him so.
"I have Type 1 Diabetes. Insulin dependent. It’s something that’s going to happen from the moment of conception. When you’re diagnosed is just a matter of long your pancreas holds out.” From the way he spoke, what he was telling me was very important. "And I'm healthy right now, but I haven't been for very long."
“So... what do you do with all of... that?” I furrowed my brow and gestured towards the equipment he’d strewn across the coffee table.
He picked up the thing he’d called a blood glucose monitor. It was sheathed in a bright red rubber skin, and looked a bit like a small iPod.
“Basically, the word diabetes means sugar in the urine.” He rolled the monitor in between his palms. “Insulin is made by the pancreas, and it helps the body use foods that are broken down into sugars—basically anything with a carb count. Pasta, bread, cake, fruit. You with me?”
“Yes.” Despite my discomfort of moments before, I was interested.
“A type 1 diabetic doesn’t make insulin. When we eat something with a carb count, we have to inject ourselves with enough insulin to take care of it.” Grasping the monitor between his thumb and forefinger, he waved it in the air. “This thing tells me how good I’m doing. It tells me if my sugars are too low and I need to eat some carbs, or if they’re too high and I need some extra insulin.”
“How do you know when to use it?” The idea that this big, ridiculously masculine man in front of me had to do something like this was so strange. I thought of how he’d been measuring his portion of casserole instead of just dumping it onto the plate, and wondered if he had to do that with every meal.
“I prick a finger and use the monitor at least four times a day, sometimes more.” He placed the monitor on the table, picked up a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. “That, along with the amount of carbs I’m going to eat, tells me how much insulin I need. It’s injected into the arms, the stomach, the sides, or the ass.”
I thought of how he had been rubbing his side when he’d come to the table. He’d just injected himself.
“So... it’s controllable, right?” I felt like I was asking the dumbest questions on the planet, but I didn’t know anything about diabetes.
“It is, if you’re vigilant.” He put the syringe and vial back on the table.
“Is everyone as... vigilant... as you are?”
“No.” The word was flat, and I blinked, wondering if I’d asked the wrong thing. He forced a smile when he saw my expression, rubbing his hands on his knees.
“I’m healthy now, Serena. But... I wasn’t always.” He paused, and I knew what he was asking without words. He'd shared something with me... it was my turn.
Diabetes sucked, clearly, but I couldn’t think anything badly of him for it. It wasn’t a fair trade of information. The darkness I held inside of me... he might never want to talk to me again.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Something about him made me want to share, so badly.
The secret was stuck in my throat. The only person I'd ever told was the one who should have believed me no matter
I shook my head and stayed right where I was.
He heaved a sigh, then stood. "Don't go anywhere." He disappeared through the entry to the kitchen, then returned with a small drawstring bag.
Opening it, he began to pull out items, placing them one by one on the coffee table, naming them as he did.
"Blood glucose monitor. test strips. Finger poker. Syringes. Fast acting insulin. Slow acting insulin. Glucagon." Having emptied the bag, he sat on the couch again, this time perching on the edge, his hands clasped together.
I squinted at the pile of items. I wasn't familiar with most of them, but one word had caught my attention.
"Insulin? You're diabetic?" I eyed the man who was at least six foot three, most of it muscle. He was one of the healthiest looking people I’d ever met, and I told him so.
"I have Type 1 Diabetes. Insulin dependent. It’s something that’s going to happen from the moment of conception. When you’re diagnosed is just a matter of long your pancreas holds out.” From the way he spoke, what he was telling me was very important. "And I'm healthy right now, but I haven't been for very long."
“So... what do you do with all of... that?” I furrowed my brow and gestured towards the equipment he’d strewn across the coffee table.
He picked up the thing he’d called a blood glucose monitor. It was sheathed in a bright red rubber skin, and looked a bit like a small iPod.
“Basically, the word diabetes means sugar in the urine.” He rolled the monitor in between his palms. “Insulin is made by the pancreas, and it helps the body use foods that are broken down into sugars—basically anything with a carb count. Pasta, bread, cake, fruit. You with me?”
“Yes.” Despite my discomfort of moments before, I was interested.
“A type 1 diabetic doesn’t make insulin. When we eat something with a carb count, we have to inject ourselves with enough insulin to take care of it.” Grasping the monitor between his thumb and forefinger, he waved it in the air. “This thing tells me how good I’m doing. It tells me if my sugars are too low and I need to eat some carbs, or if they’re too high and I need some extra insulin.”
“How do you know when to use it?” The idea that this big, ridiculously masculine man in front of me had to do something like this was so strange. I thought of how he’d been measuring his portion of casserole instead of just dumping it onto the plate, and wondered if he had to do that with every meal.
“I prick a finger and use the monitor at least four times a day, sometimes more.” He placed the monitor on the table, picked up a syringe and a vial of clear liquid. “That, along with the amount of carbs I’m going to eat, tells me how much insulin I need. It’s injected into the arms, the stomach, the sides, or the ass.”
I thought of how he had been rubbing his side when he’d come to the table. He’d just injected himself.
“So... it’s controllable, right?” I felt like I was asking the dumbest questions on the planet, but I didn’t know anything about diabetes.
“It is, if you’re vigilant.” He put the syringe and vial back on the table.
“Is everyone as... vigilant... as you are?”
“No.” The word was flat, and I blinked, wondering if I’d asked the wrong thing. He forced a smile when he saw my expression, rubbing his hands on his knees.
“I’m healthy now, Serena. But... I wasn’t always.” He paused, and I knew what he was asking without words. He'd shared something with me... it was my turn.
Diabetes sucked, clearly, but I couldn’t think anything badly of him for it. It wasn’t a fair trade of information. The darkness I held inside of me... he might never want to talk to me again.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Something about him made me want to share, so badly.
The secret was stuck in my throat. The only person I'd ever told was the one who should have believed me no matter
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