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Bile sloshes in my stomach and Mom’s expression darkens. I was eleven and I didn’t mean for it to happen. It scared the shit out of Dad, it scared the shit out of Mom, and it scared the shit out of me.
Dad points at me. “Logan’s irresponsible and if he’s going to live with you when he heads to school in the fall, you’ve got to give him boundaries.”
Mom casts her worried eyes over at me and I immediately look away. Mom isn’t capable of handing down rules and if she was, she wouldn’t have a clue how to enforce them.
Dad dropped the bomb last week that if I’m going to school in Jefferson County that they’re going to switch up the custody arrangement. Live with Mom during the week and him on the weekends. The news was the equivalent to being kicked in the nuts.
“He’s not a bad son,” she whispers.
Just like Mom isn’t a bad Mom and Dad isn’t a bad Dad. We’re just wired differently.
Honestly, I’m too much like Dad and then too much like Mom. I often think the crazy inside me is the aftermath of the personality collision. Like how a tornado can happen when a cold front and warm front collide.
“You’re not,” Dad agrees.
I nod, thanking him for acknowledging me again.
“But you have got to stop with the impulses. Learn some control.”
Control. That’s what diabetes is—control. Control my diet. Control my routine. Control my insulin. Control my blood sugar. Control my exercise. Control, control, control and even when I do control it all—my levels still bottom out or go too high and it’s a constant seesaw that never goes away.
My cell dings and when I pull it out it’s West: Abby’s asking for you. Wants to know if you’re going to do what she asked. She’s on painkillers, but she’s agitated—won’t sleep. What do I tell her?
Me: Tell her I’ll do it
At least for today. Many things are changing in my life, and the situation between Abby and I is one of them, but odds are whatever she’s asking for can feed my need for crazy for the day. I scrape the rest of my food into the garbage then deposit my dishes in the dishwasher. “That was West. Abby’s asking for me.”
“We’re not done discussing the band,” Dad says. “Your future.”
“I got to do this.” Abby. The band. To have a little crazy in the control.
“Later then,” Dad says.
“Later,” I agree.
I accept and give a kiss on the cheek to Mom, grab my keys off the counter, and I’m out the door.
Abby
“Abby!”
I jerk awake and when I do, pain slices down my chest.
“Hide it,” Isaiah says, and I fist my fingers under the blanket. Damn that hurts. “You’ve got company you don’t want to appear weak in front of.”
Isaiah hovers over my hospital bed. Shaved head. Several hoop earrings in both ears. I was there when he got two of those rows. That seems like lifetimes ago.
When I ease up on my grip, Isaiah mutters, “Linus is here.”
I try to rub the confusion out of my head, but it’s useless. “Alone or with guests hiding in corners?”
“Says he’s alone.”
I scan the room. No Mac. No Logan. Not sure what to think about either situation. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?”
“He’s an asshole.”
Doesn’t answer the question yet it does. “I’ll talk to him, but do you mind staying near?”
