Lucien’s car was in the front drive of his big, beautiful house. I touched the hood, not surprised to find it was still a little warm. The security guard had said that he’d only been here about half an hour.
Rachel opened the front door and called his name. I usually went into the house through the garage, so it was a little weird walking in this way. But the house was already very familiar to me. We’d kissed the first night we met on the couch. I remember how I tried to keep his hands tame, but how desperately I’d wanted his touch. It was a tough situation, one of those things where you really want something but you know you shouldn’t, so you fight it. It had been a long time since someone touched me that way and made me feel the things he made me feel. But I fought it because I didn’t want to get myself embroiled in something I couldn’t control. Somehow, though, I fell, and I fell deep.
“Lucien?” I called, but there was no answer.
Rachel stood in the middle of the living room, turning slightly when I crossed the threshold. And then… I knew the moment the color drained from her face.
He was on the floor on the far side of the narrow breakfast bar, his shirt lifted and blood smeared across his abs. I thought for a moment he’d been shot, but there wasn’t enough blood.
I ran to him, sliding across my knees as I dropped and took his face between my hands.
“There’s a glucagon kit in his bedroom,” Rachel mumbled.
“Get it,” I barked.
She just stood there, her eyes wide and her face pale. I smacked his face so hard that a little color came back into his cheek in the shape of my hand. But only for a moment. He was barely breathing.
“Rachel!”
“I…I don’t know what to do. I can’t move.”
I didn’t know what to do, either. I’d never had a chance to talk to him much about his diabetes. I looked it up on the internet, but what did that teach me? I had no idea how low he was, had no idea if he’d taken anything for it before he passed out.
I searched his pockets, looking for his cellphone. An ambulance seemed like a good idea. Something buzzed. I tugged out the small device that he’d told me was his CGM. It read 45 with a downward arrow.
45. Not good.
“Sugar. We need some sort of sugar.”
Rachel suddenly began to move. “Glucagon,” she said again, using that word I didn’t really understand. But she was moving, running up the stairs.
I smacked his face again, but got no reaction. The number on his CGM slid down even more. 40. 38.
He was going downhill fast.
Rachel was back a moment later, landing so hard on her knees that they popped against the tile floor. She unzipped some little case and pulled out a long syringe that looked twice as lethal as the one I’d seen among Lucien’s diabetic supplies. Her hands were shaking as she drew some fluid into the syringe and then pushed it into a small vial.
“What is it?”
“Sugar. It’ll bring his numbers back up.”
She swirled the vial and then drew that liquid into the syringe. When it was ready, she handed it to me.
“I can’t,” she said, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Where do I…?”
“Into fat.”
I looked at Lucien, but the man had very little fat on his body. The only thing I knew to do was to turn him and shove the needle into his ass. Everyone has fat in their ass, right? Then I pulled his head into my lap and ran my hands over his head.
“I can’t find his cellphone. Can you call 911?”
Rachel nodded. She got up and went into the kitchen. I picked up Lucien’s CGM and watched the numbers. It moved from 20 to 35, but then it began to slowly go back down. 34. 33. 32. My heart was pounding. I didn’t understand what was happening.
“Does he have more of this sugar stuff?”
Rachel stood in front of me, the phone against her ear.
“No.”
I touched the side of his face, rubbing his jaw roughly with the backs of my fingers.
“Don’t die on me,” I said in my most stern, soldier voice. “Don’t you die on me. Not now. Not when we just found each other. Don’t die.”
I just kept saying it over and over again, big fat teardrops falling on the side of his face in a torrential rainfall of fear and grief. I’d only known this man for a week, but it felt like a lifetime. Already I couldn’t imagine what tomorrow would be like if I didn’t have seeing him to look forward to. I wanted to wake up in his bed, wanted to roll over and find him watching me. I wanted to murmur stupid things in the dark to him, wanted to feel his arms around me, hear the reassuring whisper of his breath.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t happen.
But it was.