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.”