Mom decorates for me at her place because I refuse to do it for myself. My current room in her apartment has wind chimes. Damned if I know why.

I set my feet on the floor and scratch my bare chest before picking up my cell. Two new messages. One from Noah. The other from Isaiah. Both saying the same thing. Abby’s out of Recovery and sleeping on and off, but when she wakes she is in pain.

Pain.

I don’t like Abby in pain.

“You okay, Logan?” Mom asks.

No, I’m not. Where Dad can smell blood sugar issues, Mom can sense emotion and I’m not in the mood for her to pick at my internal wounds. “Mind giving me a few minutes?”

“It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked if that’s what you’re concerned about. I did breast-feed you.”

The wince was internal and external. Not sure what either of those has to do with the other, but I stopped trying to figure out Mom’s mind years ago. Plus, I’m not naked. I’ve got boxers on, yet I glance up at Dad, begging him to get her out of here.

Dad shrugs an I’m-sorry and I shrug an I-get-it.

“Let’s give him some room, Kayleigh.”

The bed shakes as Mom stands and she positions herself in front of me, tipping my chin up with her hand. She has brown eyes, crazy curly blond hair, a crystal around her neck, a cotton dress with flowers on it and she wears midforties well. Better than most. What creates an ache is that Mom’s not her constant beam of sunshine and I hate that I scared her. It’s not an emotion she knows how to handle.

“Are you hurt?”

“I need to test.” And this part of my life makes her uncomfortable.

Mom’s somber eyes drink me in and she lets go of my chin to mess with my hair again, combing the ends away from my eyes. “You should have called me.”

“Kayleigh,” Dad pushes.

Mom sighs heavily and marches out the door. “I brought groceries and I’m making breakfast for both of you.”

“In case you didn’t know, the divorce went through. Eleven years ago,” Dad calls out. “You don’t have to poison me.”

“You’re still my first soul mate.” Mom laughs from the kitchen. “Cooking means love and I still love the two of you. In fact, you two are my favorites.”

Dad shakes his head. “I didn’t marry your mom for her cooking. She sucks at it.”

“No shit.” I open my drawer, rooting around for what I need. Mom’s vegan, which means Dad and I are about to starve.

“Heard that, and Logan, he married me for my body.”

Dad looks close to cracking a smile and after holding Abby last night as she bled, their familiar banter feels like someone administering CPR to a worn-out heart.

“I’ll make you something to eat. What do you want?” Dad asks.

I wipe my finger down with an alcohol pad. “That’ll hurt her feelings and why did you tell her about last night? I would have gotten around to it.”

“More concerned with you eating than her feelings and I had to call and tell her I rescheduled the appointment.”

After I came home, I stood in a hot shower until the water turned cold then flipped through channels until Dad walked in after seven from work. I told him everything, leaving out Abby’s a drug dealer, and I saw who shot her. For now, choosing to stick to the story I told the police.

Could have kept the whole thing a secret, but I’m not one of those people who keep things from their parents, especially my dad. Won’t make what happened less true. Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Doesn’t mean it won’t happen again.

He listened, didn’t ask a single question, and when I was done he hugged me and told me to go to bed.

“She knew something was off the moment I spoke,” Dad continues.

I nod as I prick my finger then smear the blood on the testing strip. Mom and Dad may be divorced, but they did love each other once. Marriage wasn’t Mom’s style and Dad’s not into sharing.

A number pops up. Fuck.

“How bad?” Dad asks.

“240.” That’s high. Too high. I briefly check out Dad’s reaction and it’s a mixture of red-faced concern and flat-out panic.

He returns to quiet and so do I. Mom hums in the kitchen.

Stress can make my blood glucose levels high.

I have the insulin pen out, cleaned off, and I’m screwing the top on.

My routine’s messed up as well. I should have already tested a few times, given myself insulin, eaten breakfast, worked out, and should be moving on to lunch.

I stand, pinch my abdomen, and inject the needle.

“Are you two coming?” Mom calls.

“He’s at 240,” Dad answers.

And Mom joins us in the silence. We’ve crossed her limitations of what she can handle. Fluctuating glucose levels and shots aren’t abnormal. I give myself three to four shots a day easily and I’ve been dealing with needles since I was six, but Mom gets squeamish with the needles and the ever-changing levels, and in the end, she gets scared.

“I’ll test again after I eat,” I offer as a reassurance to Dad. “Then go for a run.”

“I’m making you eggs,” Dad says. “Eat what your mom makes, but you need the protein.”

Dad leaves and I focus on getting dressed.

* * *

My breakfast plate is half filled with eggs and toast, the other half filled with fruit and a small helping of something Mom made. She said what it was, but I wasn’t paying attention. Whatever it is Mom likes it and Dad doesn’t. I haven’t tried it yet. Reminds me of vomit.

I fork more eggs into my mouth and Mom drinks some orange juice. She’s digesting the bare-bones version of what I told Dad earlier. This time I made it through without my voice breaking and my insides only feel like it’s suffering from third-degree burns instead of a being incinerated by a full-on inferno.

Like my room and the rest of the house, the kitchen wall is bare and has the original eggshell white as when we moved in. Dad bought this three-bedroom house outright a few months after he and Mom divorced. Has some land, but not enough to farm, but we’re secluded, which means no neighbors. It’s quiet and uncomplicated. A lot like Dad.

“Are you still planning on helping Ryan and Chris bale hay this summer?” Dad switches up the subject and I nod. It’s good money and a good time. Only loose end at the moment with this plan is Abby.

“Is Abby your girlfriend?” Mom asks, and Dad glances at me, curious for the answer. I’ve never had a serious girl. That would imply I do serious.

I focus on my plate and shake my head. I don’t know what Abby and I are. Fucked up is the best answer. My eyes fall to my cell. West is on duty. He knows I’m awake and told me there were no new updates other than the ones Isaiah and Noah sent earlier.

“I tried out for a band last night,” I say. “It’s why I was there.”

Mom’s head pops up and Dad’s eyes bore into me. Probably not the right time to bring this up, but it’s not like this conversation will go well regardless.

“That’s cool,” Mom says. “I like bands.”

Dad scoots back from the table, his chair squeaking against the linoleum. The dark half-moons under his eyes a testament to his lack of sleep. “Sounds like a lot of time.”

“No more than baseball.”

“Late nights,” Dad pushes. “I understand those. It means you’re dead during the day.”

He and I stare at each other, and he says what I already know is on his mind. “What about the summer institutes through school?”

Dad’s referring to the hours of prison. My teachers assume because some shit comes easy to me, I should find learning fun. Screw that. My fingers twitch and the need for crazy grows in my veins. To bust out the door, turn off my mind, and find something to throw myself into until all the planning falls away.

“What’s the deal, Logan?” Dad asks.

“The band is thinking of getting rid of their guitarist and, if they want me, I’ll fill in.”

“Aren’t you too young for a band?”

I’m eighteen, not twenty-one, and they play bars. “I can play onstage, but I can’t hang in the bar. When we take breaks I’ll have to wait outside.”

“Alone?”

“I can take care of myself.” A convulsion in my chest as I think of how Abby often said the same words yet she still bled when she was shot, proving she’s human.

“You’ll be playing in bars? That’s sort of fancy and fun. I’ll come watch. Maybe your dad will, too.” She pokes Dad in the shoulder, her attempt at killing the negative mood. “Did you ever tell your son we met at a bar and that we had nicknames for each other and that you once smoked pot with me?”

“You smoked pot?” The question rips out of my mouth so fast Mom giggles.

“Once,” she says. “Your father struggles with fun.”

Dad won’t take cough syrup, much less get high. He’s one of those blue-collar, maximum-hours-at-near-minimum-wage guys. Worked third or swing shift on the line his entire life. Drinks an occasional beer, never buys new, fixes what breaks, watches football on Sunday. He’s sturdy. Responsible. Unchangeable.

Dad sets his why-did-I-marry-your-mother glare on me. “Don’t even think it.”