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“How was baling hay?” Dad asks.
“Tough.” I choose the container full of spaghetti and meatballs and pop the entire thing in the microwave.
Mom’s face is pale and she keeps her eyes locked on the needles. “Spaghetti has a ton of carbs.”
“I can afford to eat a few.” She’s still staring at the needles. “Mom.”
“Yes?” Not paying attention to me.
“Mom—look at me.”
She does and I decide to not play her games anymore. I love her, just like Dad did and still does, but I understand why he couldn’t live with her anymore. Mom flies off like a nervous hummingbird and calls it finding herself when things get too serious.
But I understand why Mom couldn’t be with Dad anymore, either. His need for consistent and constant smothered her, just like it often smothers me.
“I have diabetes.”
Dad relaxes back in his seat, folding his arms over his stomach. He slightly nods his approval, almost like he’s been waiting years for me to have this conversation.
Mom’s face contorts. “I know.”
“It’s not going away.”
Her expression falls and bleak isn’t an emotion Mom wears well. “I know.”
“I’m not going to hide anymore to make you comfortable. The testing, the shots. If I’m around and you’re around and I have to do these things, I am.”
The chair jerks beneath Mom as my words hit her hard. “I have never asked you to hide.”
“Your reactions do.”
Mom immediately turns to Dad for confirmation or consolation, but neither happens. The microwave dings and I pull out the steaming Tupperware container. I drop it onto the table before it burns off my fingerprints, find a fork, sit and dig in.
“You should test after,” says Dad. “I know your number was low, but—”
“Stop.” I point the fork at Dad. “You don’t get to know my numbers anymore. Going to admit, you were right on a lot of things. I wasn’t always taking the best care of myself, but that’s done.”
I pop a meatball in whole and breathe out when it’s too hot, but chew because the need to devour this whole damn kitchen is rocking me. A few chews and my face pinches. That’s some bad meat. “I told the guys about the diabetes.”
“You told them?” asks Dad.
“Told them.” Chew. “About the diabetes.” Swallow and I come close to closing my eyes on how good hot food in my stomach feels. “I’m not hiding it anymore. People want to treat me like I’m weak because of it—screw them.”
Dad leans forward now, not missing the chance for this conversation. “How did they take it?”
I shrug while twirling a hunk of noodles onto my fork. “Mad for the secret, concerned, confused. Then Ryan and I raced up a tree and everyone got over it.”
“You what?” That damn exasperation is there in his voice.
“Raced up a tree. Back to my numbers—I know how to take care of my diabetes. I know when to test, I know how and when to give my shots, I know when I’ve got problems. I’ve got one more year left until I graduate. You need to start worrying less about me and more about you.”
“Logan,” Dad starts, but I cut him off again.
“And what you said at the hospital, you’re right. I don’t have any idea what I want to do with my future, but you were wrong. That doesn’t mean I don’t know who I am. You may not like who I am, but I do. I do crazy shit. Why? Because I like to. Did I not test and take care of myself to hide the diabetes? Yeah, but that’s done, but I’m not going to change the rest of me. If I die doing something stupid like racing up a tree, then you can know I died being who I am. Not liking who I’ve become and telling me I don’t know who I am are two different things. You can’t control my diabetes, and you can’t change me.”
When I glance up from the spaghetti, it’s hard to meet Dad’s eyes. He looks like I struck him. He presses his lips together and when his mouth opens like he might say something, he pushes back his chair with enough force that it squeaks against the tiles and he leaves.
The front door slams shut and the glasses on the counter shake. I’ve lost my appetite, but I keep forcing down the food. If I don’t eat, my blood sugar will continue to tank.
