Page 47 of Double Play
I lean into him slightly, shoulder brushing his, and the thought of needing help doesn’t feel like weakness anymore.
It feels like love.
TWELVE
JACKSON
The endocrinology clinic smells like hand sanitizer and recirculated air. It’s always like someone tried to make medicine feel comforting and failed. The chairs in the waiting room are too firm, the walls are too beige, and every poster is screaming some version of YOU ARE IN CONTROL OF YOUR DIABETES in bright, cheerful fonts.
I’m trying not to spiral.
I’m failing, but I’m trying.
My leg bounces as I stare at my phone, scrolling through endless feeds for digital escapism. Andres is in a training session across town, which means I walked in here alone, checked in alone, and sat down alone like an adult.
Which should feel good.
It does, kind of.
It also feels like standing on a cliff edge without my favorite hand to hold.
My CGM is steady. 142. Arrow flat.
My heart is not.
A nurse calls my name. “Jackson?”
I stand too fast and immediately regret it when the room tilts, that post-low hangover feeling still clinging to me even though it’s been days.
“Yep,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She smiles like she’s seen twenty people today who also look like they’d rather be anywhere else.
“Come on back.”
We go through the same routine I’ve been through every three to four months since I was thirteen years old. Height. Weight. The tightness of the blood pressure cuff on my arm and the endless clicking of the mouse as the CNA goes over my medication list with me. In the next little room, which is really no bigger than a closet, she pricks my finger for the A1C test. Still, to this day, I get nervous about the number.
Too high and you get the talking-to.
If it’s in range, you get praised.
The exam room is cold, with paper on the table that crackles when I sit down.
“Any recent severe lows or highs?” she asks, and her tone stays neutral as she looks at the computer screen.
My stomach twists.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Two lows. One after a night out and one at a game.”
Her eyebrows lift just slightly. Not judgment. Just note-taking.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll make a note and you and the doc can talk about that.”
She leaves, and I’m alone again with my thoughts and the hum of the air vent. My fingers curl around the edge of the paper sheet. I hate feeling like my body is a problem I’m constantly solving.
I hate that I can do everything right and still get punished.
And I hate, most of all, how much a few days ago scared Andres.
