Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120326 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
He cranes his neck to see better, but I quickly cover myself again. His gaze smoulders.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense, then,” says Sasha, looking between the two of us.
“Um, could you both turn around for a sec?” I ask. “I’m trying to get changed here.”
Sasha gives me a look of annoyance, as if to say it’s nothing I haven’t seen a million times before, but she turns around nonetheless. Robert, on the other hand, stays facing me.
“Oh, I don’t mind watching,” he leers.
“Just turn around, Rob,” I say, exasperated.
He does, and I clip my bra on and pull my dress over my head as quickly as I can manage.
“Okay, you can turn back now,” I tell them. “I’m going to go get that thing I left in the car.”
I shove my stuff into my bag and hitch it over my shoulder.
“You want me to come with you?” Sasha asks.
“No, I can remember the way. I’ll call you if I get lost.”
“Okay, see you in a bit.”
Robert watches me leave silently as I meander my way through the crowds of other people on the beach. A few minutes later I reach the car. I get in the back and zip open my bag to take out my insulin pack. Catching sight of myself in the overhead mirror, I grimace. My hair is wavy and damp from the sea, and the sun has made the sprinkling of freckles over my nose and cheeks stand out. It strikes me that how young and fresh-faced I look contrasts starkly with how tired I feel.
Keeping up with this routine day in day out can take its toll on a person. Sometimes I wish I could get randomly cured, like those old ladies who go on pilgrimages to Lourdes with massive tumours on their bodies that miraculously disappear. That way I could act young and reckless. Live life freely without worrying about the consequences of missing a meal or misjudging a dosage.
Making sure that nobody’s hanging around the car, I pull my dress up past my stomach and lean back in the seat, breathing out an exhausted sigh. It’s odd how the absence of one little hormone can mean the difference between living and dying for someone like me.
A couple of minutes later, I’m packing everything back up in my bag when suddenly there’s a knock on the window. I jump in fright and turn to see Robert standing there, gazing down at me. My heart hammers as he walks around to the other side, opens the door, and slides right in.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him nervously.
“You were taking a while, so I came to make sure you were okay,” he answers, his voice soft.
“How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough.”
“So you saw.” Trust Robert to stay and watch instead of knocking on the window the moment he reached the car.
“I did. What were you injecting yourself with?” he asks. All of a sudden he seems upset, concerned even.
“Heroin,” I deadpan.
“Be serious, Lana. What was it?”
“It’s just medicine, Robert,” I answer on a sigh, letting my head fall back against the seat. For a few moments there my body was as rigid as a board.
“Are you sick?”
I smile sadly. “I’ve got diabetes.”
All of a sudden, he relaxes. “Diabetes, that’s no big deal, right? Lots of people have that.”
“Well, yeah, lots of people have Type 2. Unfortunately for me, I have Type 1, which means my body can’t produce its own insulin, so I need my injections daily.”
His breathing quickens as he moves his body closer to mine. “Would you die if you didn’t get it?”
I nod solemnly. “Yes, I take it three times a day.”
“How long?” he asks urgently.
“How long what?”
“How long have you had it?”
Even though I’m the sick one, I place my hand comfortingly on his wrist. “Seems like forever, really. I was diagnosed when I was seven.”
“Seven? So ever since I first met you, you’ve been sick, and you never even told me.”
“Why are you upset? Of course I didn’t tell you. We’ve never been close, never really been friends at all until now.”
His eyes stay on my hand touching his wrist. “But if I’d have known I never would have…” He trails off.
“Never would have what? Been an arsehole to me? Well, forgive me if I’d rather be treated cruelly than treated like an invalid. You’re overreacting here. I haven’t got cancer, Robert. If I’m careful I can live as full a life as anybody else.”
“I’m not overreacting, Lana. You’re sugarcoating it. You just said yourself that you could die if you didn’t get your medicine. And don’t people with diabetes die really young?”
My shoulders sag. He’s depressing me now. “I’ll die a couple of years before other people my age. That is, unless I get knocked down by a car, or murdered, or caught up in a tsunami or something else equally lethal. It’s not that bad.”
“It’s bad,” he grits out, his jaw tight. “I don’t want you to be sick.”
“Why not? Seems like when we were kids, you wanted me gone from the face of the planet.”
“That’s not true.”
“What’s true, then?” I ask, just before I notice a single tear falling down his cheek. I gasp audibly, and after several seconds pass I reach out hesitantly to wipe it away. Our faces are a breath apart when I say in awe, “You’re crying for me?”
My heart feels like somebody’s lit a match and set it on fire. Hell, it feels like they threw a gallon of petrol on it before setting it alight. Robert’s crying for me? Am I living in an alternate universe? Unless he’s got a talent for faking tears, this has to be real.
A millisecond after I’ve spoken, he grabs my face in both his hands, stares into my eyes, and breathes, “This is true,” before softly pressing his lips to mine.
In this moment my eyes drift closed, and I feel whole for the first time in my life. This isn’t just a kiss, it’s a communication, the culmination of years of repression and feigned hatred.