In my back pocket, my cell vibrates. Logan’s still staring at me and I’m still staring at him. Every time I see him, it’s like two paths emerge. One that calls to me...another that feels inevitable. Either path leads to someone I love. Both will hurt the other person I’m protecting and myself.

It stops vibrating, then begins again. I pull it out and sigh when I spot Linus’s number. The two paths narrow back into one as I’m reminded that any road to Logan only brings him trouble. I circle away from Logan, answer my phone and hold on to the idea that I’m at least saving my grandmother—that I’m at least dying on the inside for a good reason. “I sometimes wish a dragon would appear and eat your phone. Sometimes I wish it would eat you.”

“Stop daydreaming. We’ve got work to do today.”

Logan

The elevator doors open. I enter, then Mom, then Dad. Elevator rides after doctor visits have always sucked, especially when Mom’s in attendance and there’s no one else but the three of us in the box. Dad’s brewing, Mom’s seconds from peeling her own skin back, and I’m worried about Abby.

Dad pushes One and we begin the descent down, but not to leave, but for me to go pee in a cup. The doctor’s not happy with my glucose levels and how I haven’t been able to keep them in a healthy range.

“What if there’s something wrong with his kidney?” Mom’s skipping straight to that high-pitched tone.

“This test is normal.” I lean back against the mirrored wall and watch as the numbers count down. Every year we check for protein in my urine—check to see if my kidneys are considering shutting down.

Mom spins to face me. “This isn’t a joke, Logan. It’s your kidney. You need it.”

“I’ve got two. Consider one a backup.”

The way Mom’s mouth gapes and the utter look of horror in her eyes informs me the joke wasn’t appreciated. The door to the elevator opens, Mom bolts out and I feel like shit.

I follow her and before I can apologize, Mom’s already seeking refuge in the women’s bathroom. I shove my hands in my pockets. To this day I’m not sure how I end up being the one comforting her after every specialist appointment. She was this way even when I was a child.

Mom runs. It’s what she does. Who she is. Days like today though, I get real tired of it. I head to the water fountain, and Dad follows.

“Let me guess,” Dad says. “You’re thirsty.” Because a sign of high blood sugar is thirst.

I bend over and drink—a lot, but it’s not nearly enough and it won’t be. I straighten and Dad’s eyes are blazing. My glucose number was astronomical in the doctor’s office. Not my best moment to be scoring high in front of the doc. It’s like not brushing your teeth before heading to the dentist.

Lunch was my only opportunity to test or give myself insulin and I skipped it to spend time with Abby. Combine that with my only choice for food for lunch being a thick-crust pizza and it was a recipe for disaster.

Dad walks up beside me and I straighten when I feel him staring. “I was kidding—with Mom. Trying to lighten the mood.”

“That’s the problem, Logan. You don’t take any of this seriously. You don’t take anything seriously.”

“The doctor tests for protein every time. It’s routine. The test doesn’t mean he thinks something’s wrong. It doesn’t mean he thinks my kidneys are out of whack. These tests—these appointments—this is my normal and Mom needs to learn how to get over her fears or she needs to stop coming.”

Dad’s eyes harden. “Your blood sugar was over three hundred. Three hundred, Logan!”

“I know. I was there.” In case he missed it that was my blood on the testing strip. “I’m doing the best that I can, all right?”

I walk off, scanning the walls for a sign for the lab and Dad cuts me off. “No, it’s not all right. You’ve got to do better.”

I slam on the bill of my baseball cap and meet Dad’s pissed-off glare. “Fine.”

“Not fine,” Dad pushes. “Why didn’t you test at lunch? You knew you were going to have a high-carb lunch so why didn’t you give yourself insulin?”

“I thought I’d have time to eat and then head out to the truck to test and take a shot if I needed, but I didn’t.” Because Abby was there and I wasn’t missing a second with her.

Dad’s studying my face and when he hears what I didn’t admit to, a rush of air leaves his body. “You’d rather risk your life than admit to anyone you have diabetes.”

A muscle in my jaw twitches. “I’m not risking my life.”

“Every time you don’t test, every time you permit your blood sugar to go high, you’re putting your life at risk.”

Screw this. I move to go around Dad, but he slides into my way. “Stop running, Logan. I’ve let this conversation go for too long, but I’m not anymore.

“Run? I’m not running.” I point to the bathroom. “Mom’s a runner. I can’t run from the diabetes. I can’t hide in a bathroom or pick a new guy and pretend bad things don’t exist. I go to bed every night knowing my diabetes will still be there in the morning. There’s no cure. There’s nothing to make this go away. I test and I test and you know what happens, the same thing. The number goes up, the number goes down. There’s no escaping it because it never ends.”

“That’s right,” Dad challenges. “It will never go away and it’s time you accept that.”

“I have accepted it! I have no choice but to accept it. You want me to be happy about it, but nowhere does it say in all the paperwork I’ve read that I have to be happy about it. I don’t have to like that my body is broken!”

Pain slashes through Dad’s eyes, and I circle away from him only to find myself U-turning back. “What do you want from me?”

Dad places his hands on his hips and his head dips like he’s tired and that’s because he is. Dad’s always tired. His chest expands as he breathes in and I’m shaking my head. I already know what he wants and I can’t give it. “No.”

For years, Dad’s been on me to get an insulin pump and I’ve refused.

“You’re not playing baseball anymore.” Dad throws the excuse I’ve used to not get it in my face, explaining to him that it would be a pain in the ass to constantly remove the device because it could get damaged the way I play.

I’m silent, because baseball was just that—an excuse.

“The pump can help. Instead of depending upon you to test and give yourself the insulin, it will do it for you.”

It’s more complicated than that, but it’s the general idea. I shrug like I might be considering it. Shrug like I have a valid excuse to say no. “I might play ball again this fall.”

“You’re just like your mother.”

Anger explodes through me and I point at the bathroom again. “I’ve already explained that I’m not a runner. That I’ve accepted what I am.”

“What you are?” Dad scrubs a hand over his face. “If you know it, mind explaining it to me?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“One day you’re a ball player, the next you’re into cars, then you’re playing guitar, tomorrow it will be something else. For years, I’ve watched you bounce—from one thing to the next. The next thing crazier than the one before.”

“Is this where you tell me I’m irresponsible?”

“You don’t commit. Not to a sport, not to a hobby, not even to a girl. A girl you were with was shot and your mother and I have heard nothing about her since.”

A mean streak originates in my gut and spreads fast like venom. “Back off of Abby.”

“No, I’m not backing off anymore. You’re so caught up in not wanting to be the person with diabetes that you’ve become everything and everyone else around you. That you hate what’s inside you so much that you’ve never bothered figuring out who you are! And that, Logan—that’s how you’re like your mother!”

We both notice her then—right outside the bathroom door. Mom tucks a lock of her curly blond hair behind her ear. She nibbles on her bottom lip before approaching us, her eyes slashing through my father. “And he keeps it all inside—just like you. No emotion. No conversation. Constantly living a half-life because both of you are afraid to feel.”

Her words strike deep. Too deep. So deep, the need for crazy emerges like a shark circling its bleeding prey. “Sounds like I inherited the worst of both of you and I got the bonus of a jacked-up pancreas to boot. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find out if I fucked up my kidneys.”

I push past Dad, my shoulder hitting his and when I get a few steps away, he calls out my name, but I keep walking.

Abby

Rule number four: there’s no such thing as downtime—just another opportunity to make money.

Dad was pretty adamant about that one. Said it several times. He also used to tell me that the best thing about parties was the people watching. Second-best—is having fun while working overtime.