Chapter 29

This was a mistake.

Alan rubbed at his chest, a futile effort to ease the tightening vice on his lungs. But the more they stared the tighter the vice became. His pulse pounded in his ears beneath their scrutinizing gaze, and he couldn't figure if they were supposed to be on him or he was just caught in the crossfire. Fussy moms and dolled up girls covered nearly every inch of the holding room. That's what it was referred to anyway; no amount of sparkly vanity mirrors, traveling makeup cases, and clouds of hairspray could cover up the generic motivational posters hanging on the walls and the scent of stale erasers lingering around the history classroom. Weekends at school were a different world; holding a dance competition there was setting foot on a different planet.

Alan moved through the throng of impossibly stretchy and limber girls dressed to the nines in glitzy costumes. A few gave him a second look, their heavily lashed eyes fluttering so much they could have cleared a few inches off the floor. Not that he noticed. The hem of his denim scraped against the ground, scuffing with every step of his smudged and stained Converse, his fingers curled against the ends of his sleeve, knuckles whitening, and his eyes moved from side to side on a constant swivel, and he finally laid eyes on her and his whole body relaxed with a content sigh.

He approached and blue eyes met brown and he watched the smile bloom on her face in the reflection of the mirror, rivaling the high wattage of the bulbs running around the rim of the vanity. Mickey turned in her seat, and his walk stuttered at the sight of her, thunderstruck how this girl, his friend, who he'd known for years, was the same as the beautiful, ethereal being he'd just watched float and glide across the stage, twisting and contorting her body to reflect the lyrics of the song pouring through the speakers.

"Hey! I didn't know you were comin'." Her eyes sparkled, like glitter scattered across the surface of a crystal-clear ocean.

Alan peeled his tongue from the roof of his mouth and managed a nonchalant shrug. "Yeah, well, I was bored so…"

Mickey's bright red lips quirked up at the corners. "So…you decided to come lookin' like you robbed a scarecrow?"

"This, I uh…your dad let me borrow it," Alan explained, tugging at the collar of the large jacket. Mr. Mason had taken one look at him when he showed up at his house and beckoned Alan to follow him into the bedroom. He sorted through a few hangers until he chose a navy sports coat. It really went with the dinginess to his used-to-be bright white shirt and the holes in his jeans. But even as Alan shrugged it on, Mr. Mason looked at him with this weird smile and all he could say about it was, "Trust me." And when Mrs. Mason saw him, she got an odd look in her eye too. The Masons had a way of saying a lot while saying little at all.

The apple didn't fall far from the tree: Mickey's head tilted as she looked at him, his skin burned beneath her gaze, igniting pinpricks as she looked him over head to toe and all he wanted to do was turn around and leave. Because this was stupid. His heart beating so hard and his pulse racing like this was stupid. It was Mickey of all people; his best friend, his oldest friend, the same girl he'd seen dance for years. And now…this.

"Are those for me?"

He blinked and followed the line of her sight to his tightly wound fist, his fingers choking the life out of the daisies resting on his palm. Their roots reached towards the floor, clumps of dirt hanging on for dear life, curling and spiraling within their strong hold. Grumbling, he thrust his arm out towards her, "My momma said you might like 'em." Well she said Mickey'd like something. He decided on flowers and what kind. Not that it was a big deal. Mickey loved daisies. It was just a fact.

He rubbed at his neck and whispers shot around him, hissed bullets flying behind raised palms and pointed fingers. Sparks popped against his skin when she took the flowers from him, fingers brushing against his sweat-slicked palms. He shoved his hands in his pockets, snuffing the ignited flames coursing through his veins before they could get too far.

"Oh, that's sweet. Thank you!" Her smile softened as she brought the flowers to her face. If she noticed the droplets of water and smidges of wet dirt falling onto the lap of her performance skirt she didn't react. Or didn't care. She set them down and reached for her pinned hair, pulling a few out until it tumbled down around her shoulders. With her rounded eyes and blush tinted cheeks and dark hair and pouty mouth, she resembled a doll. Alan's stare, soft and dazzled, broke at her question: "You didn't happen to bring in something to eat, did you?"

"Way ahead 'f ya." Thankful for the distraction, Alan shoved his hands into his pockets and pulled out the candy bar in question.

"Oh, yes!" Snatching the candy out his hand, her teeth attacked the wrapper. With a quick jerk of her head, it ripped apart. Her tongue flickered out as she spat away the errant wrapper on her tongue and when she took a bite, her eyelids fluttered shut and her body sagged with a happy sigh. "I love you."

Her declaration came out a jumbled mess, fighting through the melting chocolate coating her tongue and the peanuts snapping between her teeth. But he heard it and the words buzzed in his head, illuminated like a neon sign, pulsing with every beat of his thrumming heart.

What the heck was happening?

He'd been breathing too much hair spray. Yep, that had to be it. It was the only explanation, hair spray and perfume clogged up the room and now he was going through some sort of medical emergency. As long as he got some fresh air, he'd be fine. So he turned on his heel and marched right back out of the room. The sooner he got fresh air, the better. It was for his health, of course.

Because the only other option, the only other reason, he couldn't let be an option or a reason.

So he ran. At least he was used to it.

# # #

Wind bit at his sweat-slicked skin, dragging a chill down his spine. Stale yellow floodlights cast down on the retreating players and spectators. Some rushed away, energy pumped into their legs and powering the volume to their hoots and cheers, while others dragged their feet, hunched shoulders pulling them forward and off the field, flags once raised in triumph leaning wilted in defeat.

Alan dragged an arm across his forehead while on his slow trek across the field. His ruddy cheeks puffed up and snapped back when he blew out a breath, tilting his head back, casting his gaze upwards to the darkening sky. A single, bright dot in the sky fought against the glare of the floodlights.

"Nice game, bro!" The words came simultaneously with a hard slap to Alan's back, stuttering his step. He grasped the strap of his bag running across his chest and shot an annoyed look Brett's way. Not everyone needed to run their mouths every minute, but Brett never operated like that. It's no wonder Alan found him so exhausting sometimes. "You were on fire! You're totally going down in history for this one. That corner kick?" Brett brought his fingers up to his mouth, kissing them in an exaggerated manner. "Only seen a better one when I did it." A loud laugh burst out his mouth as he mussed up his already messy hair. It was all for show; Alan hadn't missed the lingering group of whispering girls by the bleachers, and he knew for sure Brett hadn't either. He worked best with an audience; it was a bonus when they were girls.

Double the points if they were freshmen.

"You're comin' to my place, right?" Brett turned, skipping a little to walk backwards, keeping his words directed at Alan's face. His shoulders were loose and his gait relaxed. Alan knew it was all timed and perfected down to the last detail. Brett didn't do anything without making sure he came across effortless at any given moment.

"Uh, no."

"C'mon man! You can't miss the dance! Your fan club will be waiting." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. The girls tittered. Alan grunted. "I'm sure one of 'em will make the celebrations a lot sweeter." Brett's eyebrows wiggled. "If you catch my drift."

Brett's drift was about as subtle as a shovel to the face. "Dances aren't my thing."

"Dude!" Brett had stopped walking, allowing Alan to catch up with him. It put him in striking distance; Brett's backhand caught him hard on the chest. Pressing his lips together, Alan pushed a heavy breath out his nose. "I'm tellin' ya, you wouldn' have to do a thing and the girls will be swarmin' you! That jersey is your in!" He pinched the shoulder of Alan's soccer jersey as he spoke, giving it a good shake before falling into step with him and swinging his arm around his shoulders. The faint smell of smoke reached Alan's nose. Brett's arm tightened around Alan's neck as he ducked his head, his grin widening. "Well, I hear Leslie's goin' so you got your chance."

Alan wrenched Brett's arm from his neck and shoved him away; their large gym bags bounced against their sides, counting down the remaining steps he had in the shrinking space between the two boys and the sidelines. Tires screeched from the parking lot in the distance, a truck packed tight with hollering classmates doing donuts of celebration in the back. A quick scan told Alan no teachers were around to stop the festivities. Not that they could; Homecoming and its festivities had all the students amped since the start of the week. It was a lost cause trying to get them to comply and focus on anything other than Spirit Week and the dance.

The stupid dance. In what world was getting dressed up to sweat through cheap clothes in the hot, stuffy gym, drinking watered down punch and eating cold pizza fun? Alan'd much rather be dragged into the desert and dig holes. At least he'd match the uselessness of the waste of time.

Getting his chance with Leslie wasn't as big a draw anymore. Not as much as Brett expected, bringing her up. It wasn't lost on him, the lack of enthusiasm at the idea. Leslie DeBarge was…she'd always been someone Alan noticed; who didn't? With her light brown skin, grey eyes, big curly, cloud-like hair, and a smile ready for anyone and everyone, wrapped up in a golden glow as if a spotlight followed her around, she drew attention with little effort. But lately she didn't have much shine; her smile didn't make him go stupid, her laugh didn't sound as melodic, and the way she would coil her hair around her finger while taking a test didn't make his stomach twist. What happened?

"Man, I'm good," Alan said, meeting Brett's steady gaze. "'M just gonna head home."

"Sure?" Brett barely waited for confirmation as he continued, "Guess I'll go for her then. Can't leave her all alone while that skid of hers does god knows what when he could have that hot number on his arm." Alan could have pointed out that Colton—the skid—did more for him than he realized but he didn't.

"What about your fan club?" Alan lifted his chin in their direction.

Brett laughed, slapping him again. "Hey, there's enough of me to go around." He laughed again. "Just gotta work 'em and they'll wait for me. Sides, that's what the after party's for, if I don't get it in with Leslie. Anyway! My place, eleven. You better show your ass, Carson." He jogged forward, calling over his shoulder almost as an afterthought, "Bring that Mickey girl too if you want. She's pretty cute."

Alan's fingers curled tighter around the strap of his bag, knuckles whitening. Teeth gritting, the red on his cheeks deepened as flames flickered in his stomach and one word shot through his mind:

Mine.

"What the…?" He shook his head, hard, any way to get rid of the sticky, niggling idea. He must've hit by the ball harder than he thought.

He walked past the giggling group of freshman who tugged on their hair and fluttered their lashes at Brett, all but tripping over themselves when he flashed them his half smile and greeted them. Alexis pushed her way to the front, leading with either her chin or, by the looks of it, stuffed bra. Not that it mattered to Brett; attention was attention, and he loved the view from his pedestal.

The dying noise of celebration became swallowed in the darkness behind him as he neared the parking lot. His eyes searched the rows and rows of cars for his mother's old Chrysler Imperial. Maybe she actually made it out to see him play this time; it wasn't like she had a job to get to. But his second sweep turned up nothing and, even though he knew he was fooling himself, he glanced towards the entrance to the parking lot. Off in the distance cars glided through the dark, heading one way and the other. None turned in.

It's just as well; half the time the Chrysler didn't want to run and, when it did, he had to get out and push it until the dead engine turned over more times than it was worth. But it was all his mother could afford and its loud backfires and squeaky belts let everyone in the world know it. He already had a sign on his forehead signifying his lack of financial means, he didn't need to add neon lights to it.

With a heaving sigh, he'd resigned himself to starting the walk home when a tug on the sleeve of his jersey stopped him. All at once the irritation simmering in him washed away, taken over by the light fizzing of elation and a twist to his stomach so sharp it almost bowled him over when he saw Mickey at his side. Streaks of burgundy and smeared across her cheeks, matching the large sweatshirt swallowing her frame; the hem brushed her thighs and the sleeves hung past her hands. Somehow, despite the looming darkness and the flickering lights in the parking lot, the light in her eyes shined through.

"Didn't you hear me? I've been calling you," Mickey commented.

Swallowing the lump rising in his throat, Alan shook his head. "No, you're going to have to talk louder. Maybe you'll finally reach the level of a whisper."

"Ha ha." She rolled her eyes. "My dad wanted to see if you wanted to come over for dinner. My mom's outta town so we're having pizza." She extended her arm and tapped her fist, or what he thought was her fist, against his arm. "Good game, by the way!"

"Thanks." He mulled her offer over, giving into the screaming acceptance of his empty stomach when his brain halted. "Wait. Y'aint goin' to the dance?"

She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth and released it with a shake of her head. "Alexis wanted me to, but I didn't feel like it. She said I'd be a wet blanket anyway; didn't want to spend the whole night standing in a corner." Mickey brushed at her nose with the sleeve of the sweatshirt; it hung down over her hand, swaying to and fro at the end. He looked her over again, his mind rocketing back to the competition she won a few weeks ago, all dressed up and painted in makeup. It wasn't until her head tilted and her eyebrows crinkled, he realized he'd been staring. He'd been doing that a lot lately.

"So instead y'wanna spend your night holed up in your house?"

She nodded. "With you." His eyebrows flew up and her shoulders bounced in a nonchalant shrug. "I figure it'd be much more fun."

"A bad decision on your part," he said, somehow managing to keep his voice steady despite feeling not so steady. The exhaustion from the game had to be catching up to him; he ran hard, keeping on his toes, and now his legs were paying for it. Mickey fell into step by his side when he continued walking. His cleats clacked against the cement. The sleeves of the hoodie brushed against the back of his hand. His skin itched and burned. God, he really needed to get a grip. "Is that my hoodie?"

She looked down as if noticing it for the first time. "Yeah," she agreed, speaking to her feet, "I got cold and got it from your locker." She looked up at him with her big blue eyes, drawing him in. He shifted his weight back, pressing weight onto his heels, grounding himself in reality before he could lean over and do something drastically stupid. "Hope you don't mind."

He'd mind later when he got it back and it smelled like her—something floral with a light hint of peaches—but now he didn't. It looked better on her anyway. He draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they kept walking.

# # #

The hammock creaked and groaned with every sway between its tethers, two large trees scraping against the underbelly of the strikingly blue, cloudless sky. Cradling his neck with an arm bent behind his head, Alan kept his head tilted back, mentally mapping the tree limbs stretching its fingers overhead, casting dotted shade on his face where the high noon sun squeezed through the leaves as he sunk into summertime ambience. Somewhere down the street little kids shrieked as they ran and jumped through a churning sprinkler, spitting water out onto the parched grass. A lawn mower hummed as it chugged along its path. Cicadas buzzed high up in trees, melting into the churning hums of ac units standing strong outside the towering homes. A lazy start to the dog days of summer.

"My mom's thinkin' 'bout sellin' the farm." Alan hummed, stuffing his blue popsicle into his mouth, staving the lift to his lips. He continued to flex his foot against the ground to rock them from side to side. Out the corner of his eye, Mickey pulled the bright red popsicle from her mouth, holding the wooden handle with pinched fingers. "She says she doesn't want the hassle," Mickey continued. A bead of red rolled over the back of her hand and down her wrist. She tilted her head, dragging an equally red tongue against her skin, catching the drop. Her shoulders sagged in a sigh. "I don't get it, she liked goin' last year."

Alan shrugged. "Grief changes people."

Or so his aunt said the first and last time he saw her. She'd come into town a week after his father left. His mother couldn't get off the couch, not that Alan minded back then. He was only three and liked that she was around to cuddle with and watch Sesame Street with. But when he wanted to play or go to the park his aunt would take him, explaining that his mom's heart and head were sick, and she needed some space. When he got back, he'd immediately run over to his mother and place a big kiss on her cheek. She always said his kisses made her feel better.

He was sure they did when she finally got off the couch. Her eyes were dull and her skin pale and her hair was a mess, but she smiled at him the same way and ruffled his hair the same way and made him his favorite breakfast, Freckle Toast: toast with a layer of honey, ricotta cheese, and smashed strawberries on top. It tasted so good he almost didn't notice his mother and his aunt's hushed whispers in the kitchen as he sat in front of the TV.

Almost.

He caught little bits of their conversation: his aunt needed to mind her own business, his mother needed to get her act together, and his aunt couldn't replace her deadbeat brother and they'd have to go to court if she wanted him so bad. When he finished breakfast his aunt was gone and his mother's eyes were red rimmed and her smile was wooden but she reassured him they were fine, they'd be fine, and all they needed was each other. All he could do was sit back and watch as his mother, once so sweet and whimsical and loving, hardened her heart and abandoned her morals for their survival.

So, yeah, grief changes people; he saw it with his own two eyes.

After all, it was hard to avoid them when you looked in the mirror.

"It's been seven years."

Alan shrugged again. "Grief don't expire."

"Yeah, but why now?"

He didn't have an answer for that. She wouldn't like his answer anyway, that he didn't mind the news. She and Mrs. Mason went to her grandfather's peach tree farm every summer since he passed. Alan didn't like when she left. He got bored when she left and when he was bored he got in trouble. At least that's what he told himself for this occasion; he'd always been good at fooling himself. It was much easier than facing the heart-led truth. It didn't give him any room to get his hopes up. Hoping was for chumps.

"When you leavin'?"

"Tomorrow morning."

Alan slowly nodded, dragging his deep blue tongue against the length of his popsicle, collecting the sharp raspberry taste. He knew that. He just wanted to keep her talking. Not that he would forget her voice, but to keep the day from ending. To keep her from saying bye. Somehow it hurt worse than someone leaving without looking back. Because then it gave her the chance to change her mind.

"He always wanted to go to Italy y'know." He studied her profile; the slight pucker to her lips, the steady gaze upwards as if searching for someone in the heavens, the stars slowly appearing in her eyes. "He loved the farm and providing for the community, but he always wanted to travel. Especially after Nana died."

He knew the story; he'd met her grandfather, Poppy Sawyer as he was immortalized in his mind, only a handful of times. He was a very imposing and formidable man for someone so quiet and sure. He didn't speak much but, when he did, Alan was sure to sit and listen. Poppy had a way about him that made anyone and everyone in his vicinity feel important because, to him, they were. Especially his wife.

They'd met in Texas where she, a nurse, cared for him after an industrial incident. Soon they fell in love and moved to Georgia to continue his mother's dream of running a peach tree farm. It flourished after a year of hard work and cooperation, she had the vision, he had the work ethic. They were a great pair. Mrs. Mason came along somewhere in the years following, born to help run the farm and their market stand on weekends and to learn the lessons of hard work. It brought along Mr. Mason at one point, a vagabond looking for a place to stay in trade for honest work. He thrived in the orchard and she in the on-site shop, but it wasn't a life she wanted to live so they packed up and moved back to Texas where truck driving opportunities were plenty. Poppy wasn't particularly enamored with the idea, story goes he chased Mr. Mason around the yard for a solid hour, wondering how he dare take his daughter away with the only thing pushing them being a hope and a prayer. One couldn't live on that. But he saw the love in their eyes, one so reflected in his own, and let them go.

With the farm all but running itself at that point, they had set their sights on saving to travel overseas and experience what the world had to offer. And then Nana Sawyer got sick. After she passed, he revisited that old dream of living past the barriers of the tree line. But his dreams faded as he could never bring himself to leave her behind. In the end he never did, passing away in the same home and the same bed his wife did years before.

"We should go."

It took Alan a second to hear what she said, something about the earnest intensity to her face made his stomach squeeze. And when it wasn't followed by a wave of dizziness or black in his vision he accepted it had nothing to do with his blood sugar. "Go where?"

"To Italy." He didn't mean to laugh but, well, it was ridiculous. Someone like him in Italy? He couldn't even make it across the Mississippi River, and she expected him to be able to jump across an entire ocean? "I'm being serious."

"I know, that's what makes it funny," he said.

"But we could do it!"

"How?'

"Well, after you graduate—"

Alan snorted. "I flunked once already. Don't think graduation is gonna happen."

Mickey twisted, extending her free hand in his face, palm out, while shushing him. "Just listen! Okay so you'll be a junior and I'll be a sophomore when school stars. All you gotta do is get better grades in English and Geography…and History, maybe join a club, and then graduation will be easy! If you get a job you can save up some money and after you graduate we can go to Italy to celebrate! You can pay half and I can pay half." Once quick glance at the expression on Alan's face and she cleared her throat and quickly amended, "…or I can pay most of it if you can take care of taxis and other amenities. It'll be perfect!" She sat up straight, jostling the hammock. Alan dragged his heel against the ground, holding them in place. "We could go to all the museums, and you can take pictures and draw all the sights! And…and I can go to the markets and the shops and we can take a cooking class and we could go to villages on bike tours and take a gondola ride!"

Her words all crammed together in her excitement, individual plans becoming one long waterfall, dripping off her tongue into a pool of promise. Of course, none of this would actually happen. He wouldn't graduate and they wouldn't go to Italy, but the idea was…nice.

Nice wasn't close to the word he wanted, nor was it strong enough, but he couldn't touch the word that actually came to mind regarding her, regarding the idea of leaving and being in a foreign place where they could take a good long break and where he could finally breathe. Where they could be Mickey and Alan against the world, the way he liked it.

It was the same word tripping him up lately, knotting his tongue and squeezing his stomach and stuffing him so tight with the urge to grab her face and turn her red coated tongue purple he felt ready to explode.

But he pushed it aside because those things, escape and stability and contentment and lo—well, those things didn't belong to people like him. He wasn't good enough for it, for her, and he knew that. So he'd let her make plans and pretend going to Italy was doable, it made her happy. At least he could hold onto that.

"You gotta lotta faith in that plan," he said, easing a slow breath between thumping heartbeats.

She shook her head. "I got a lot of faith in you."

# # #

…Okay?

Okay?

That's it? That's all she had to say? He'd been lying to her, even after all the times he promised he wasn't, and she was okay with it?

If it weren't for him her house wouldn't have been broken into, she wouldn't have been threatened, Brett wouldn't have been on her radar, she wouldn't have been alone, she wouldn't be sent to the camp, she wouldn't be dragged around and beat down over and over again, she wouldn't have spent most of her life trying to keep him out of trouble, she wouldn't have shrunk herself down to be acceptable to the world only to then turn around and take every little thing thrown her way with an apology like it was her responsibility. He wouldn't have blamed her if she got angry with him. But her steady acceptance? He didn't deserve that. She didn't either. And yet there she stood, without batting an eye.

She might be okay with that, but he wasn't. And it was something about the way she looked at him, with eyes so piercing and alluring, everything trapped inside of him flew out. He wasn't one to ramble but she sure had a way of bringing him to his knees.

"God, y'can't just…say that! Y'can't just be okay with that! With everythin'! With everyone pushin' you 'round! Y'don't deserve that! Y'don't deserve anyone treatin' you any way they want. Includin' me, and I'm sorry for that. I can't even begin t'tell you how sorry I am. All the times I lied and about Colton and Brett. Fuck!" He gripped at his hair; the lingering pinpricks of pain fueled the flame of his anger. His hands falling to his sides, slapping against the fabric of his jumpsuit, stung against his palms. "You've always been there for me and I just sat aside and let the school and everyone trash you. You've never lied to me. I know that. I know you. I—Mickey, I believe you. Okay? About what Brett did, about him still messin' with you, about somethin' goin' on here. You wouldn' lie. I know you. I know your heart. You spend so much time givin' it to everyone who doesn't deserve it, includin' me, but I promise I won't make you regret it." She continued to stare at him, drawing him in, pulling him under. He took a step closer, held her gaze, spoke a little slower to be sure she heard him. "I'm sorry about all this. I believe you."

She blinked, her long lashes fluttering, and her lips parted slightly as she lifted her chin, "…Huh?"

He almost laughed, or so he thought the pressure building in his chest was. "I said I believe you."

The words had barely left his mouth, just brushing past his lips when her kiss came and trapped the words between them. He wasn't sure what he expected after hiding away the growing desires to kiss her for so long, maybe fireworks or some sort of crackling static but, instead, he got the familiar warm comfort of home.

It burned through his chest, cracking and melting the ice built up around him over the years, leaving him to peer at the exploding dying firelight around them as he was set alight.

And all he could do was stare when she backed away, cheeks flushed, stammering an apology as if she'd crossed some sort of line or she'd done something wrong. How he felt was the complete opposite of wrong. Nothing that wrong could feel that right, feel so overdue. Geeze, she talked too much! Or maybe he talked too little and that was their entire problem. But he'd deal with it later—he hoped there would be a later, that they had a chance for a later—maybe it was selfish, but he wanted that taste of home again.

He grasped her face, thumbs resting by her mouth, tilted her head back, muttered a quick "Don't be," to her apologies and closed his eyes, returning home again. And it felt good. It felt even better when his burning lungs pulled him away and she reached out for him, grabbing him, pulling him back, allowing them both to sink into water rising around them.

a/n - Happy Thanksgiving to all my American readers! Thanks so much for getting me over 100 reviews! I didn't expect to get this many for this fic but I appreciate it so much. Alan and Mickey's story means a lot to me and I'm so happy you all are enjoying it! Shawny asked for Squid's POV on the kiss and how could I not oblige? Of course I had to throw in some background from his view so I hope you enjoy the flashback scenes as well! Also, if you look closely enough I revealed something about Brett in this chapter that will come into play super soon! Any guesses what it is? Please read and review and have a great holiday!

C.M.

P.S. Shawny, you're very welcome about the diabetes stuff! Thank you so much for feeling brave enough to correct me; as I've said before, despite feeling as if I've done substantial research, I can and did miss the mark and I don't want to offend anyone who may be afflicted with the disease. I don't mind at all people pointing out inaccuracies that could be potentially harmful to readers or provide a false view on topics. Thanks again for coming to me with your concerns!