He browses my old sketchbooks as I color. I usually hate people seeing my half-formed ideas and my failures, but Dieter looks at each page with the gravity with which someone would contemplate the Mona Lisa, and murmurs a question about my inspiration or the medium every now and then.
At one o’clock he makes us sandwiches for lunch, ham for him and cheese and cucumber for me, and I sit at the kitchen counter talking about my classmates and various teachers; who I like and who I don’t like.
I want him to smile at me, but he’s grown very serious and his brows are drawn together and heavy. I find without asking him to that he’s cut the crusts off my sandwich. Then he puts the knife down and places his hands either side of the cutting board, staring at the food he’s prepared.
“Sorry. I didn’t ask you how you like it.”
“No, no. That’s perfect. That’s just the way I have them.” It’s funny that he knows that. I like small things. Pretty things. Things that make me feel like the world’s not such a scary place after all. I like pretty things against harsh, black things, too. Eyeliner and black leather satchels with pink skirts and white blouses. Heavy boots when I’m angry so I can stomp about in them and make sure everyone knows how I feel.
I realize I like tall men in black shirts, too, with severe frowns and large, squarish hands. He seems like he could be dark and fierce enough for the both of us.
“Dieter,” I say as he sets the plate in front of me, not knowing what I’m going to say, but feeling like there’s an apology lurking somewhere on my tongue.
“Eat your lunch,” he says, his voice clipped. “I need to talk to you about something after.” He’s not looking at me as he bites into his sandwich.
His tone takes the edge off my enjoyment. Talk about what? The kiss? The drawings? Suddenly I’m not hungry. “Talk to me about it now.”
“Eat first. You’re diabetic and you need to eat.”
I feel my hackles rise. I don’t need that pointed out to me. I’ve been looking after my illness on my own for years and I can manage it perfectly well. I chew my sandwich like I’m tearing flesh from bones, glaring at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
When I’ve finished eating he says, “Your insulin.”
“It can wait. Tell me what you need to say.” He’s quitting, I think, and to my surprise my chest feels tight.
“No. Insulin first.”
“Look, if you’re going to quit, then just say it and get it over with. It’s not like I’m going to be upset.”
He blinks, surprised. “I’m not quitting. Why would you think that?”
Because that’s what people do when things get difficult. They throw their hands up, call you impossible and then leave. I fetch my insulin satchel from my bag in the hall and come back to the kitchen, not able to look at him. Unzipping the first satchel, I prick my finger to test my glucose levels. Then I take out the insulin pen. Dieter surprises me by holding out his hand. “Let me do that.”
I hold the pen close to my chest. “Why?” No one touches my insulin but me. The last time anyone administered it for me was when I was eleven and I was first diagnosed and the nurse had to teach me how to do it.
“Because I want to know how to take care of you if something happens.”
“I don’t even like you watching me do it,” I say, and then realize I’ve practically admitted that I did it in front of him yesterday just to prove a point. “Why would I let you do it for me?”
He leans his hip against the counter and folds his arms. “That’s fine. It’s your decision. But I want to because it’s my job to look after you.”
He wants to? “I can do it myself,” I blurt, unable to think of anything else to say.
Dieter’s voice is soft when he speaks again. “I know how strange all this is for you. If you don’t want me to administer your insulin, I’ll understand. But I just hope you realize that I’m here for you, and only for you.”
For the first time I believe him when he says that. But something still bothers me. “My father’s the one who hired you and pays for you.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Adrienne, I don’t give a fat fig about your father.”
I chew my lip, wondering how I feel about this whole having-a-bodyguard thing. I thought it would be like having an extension of my father following me about all day, but it’s not like that.
I put the insulin pen into his hand. When I start to explain how to use it he cuts me off.
“Don’t tell me. Watch me, and stop me if I do anything wrong. Okay?” He looks at me, waiting for my assent.
My heart is beating a little faster. I’ve relinquished some control over to him and for some reason I...like it? The slim, gray pen is dwarfed in his large hands. I start thinking about those hands wrapped around my wrists or my throat, and as a hot sensation chases through my body I realize something unsettling. I’m attracted to my bodyguard. He unnerves me; he even frightens me a little and I can’t seem to get the better of him. But I think I like that.
“Okay,” I manage, my voice hoarse.