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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 cry
stal 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.
