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Diego and I look at one another and crack up. It’s true. We’ve always had our own language, a way of speaking without words. It’s not even a conscious thing anymore.
It’s just us.
“Leave them alone,” my mother protests, defending Diego to my dad the way she always has. Though, he doesn’t need any defense. I suspect my dad loves Diego as much as the rest of us do.
“I’m glad you came, but you don’t have to help us move. I don’t have much stuff anyway,” I tell him, waving him inside. “Most of my furniture is being delivered next weekend.”
“Cool.” Diego removes his suit jacket. “I ordered lunch. Figured you would all be hungry after moving.”
“That’s sweet, Diego,” my mother says. “But Damon made a reservation for us at that new Thai place across town. It’s my favorite.”
His face drops. “Oh.”
“I have to unpack my stuff anyway,” I say. “You all should go.”
“If your family made plans—”
“That’s right,” my father cuts in. “I made plans on my baby girl’s first full day back home.”
“Damon,” my mother says, giving him a look.
Frowning, he looks between me and Diego. I have no idea what he’s thinking or what that look my mother just gave him is all about. The truth is, I’m a little drained from my move.
I arrived back in Williamsport yesterday, and though the movers have done most of the work, I still had to arrange things.
I spent much of the morning picking out furniture with my mom. Which she and my dad insisted on buying.
“You look tired anyway, honey,” my mother says.
“Let me check your watch.”
“What are your numbers?”
Diego and my dad speak at the same time. Diego reaches me first, taking my wrist into his hand. He immediately checks my watch's display, reading my blood sugar levels.
“You’re a little low.” He frowns.
I don’t even bother to scold him or my dad about their overprotectiveness. I’ve missed them. I check the number. Diego’s right, but I’m still in the safe range.
“I put the orange juice in the fridge already.”
Diego’s at the refrigerator before I can even finish my sentence. He hands me a carton of the juice and watches as I open it.
“Drink,” he insists.
I mean mug him at the same time I take my first sip.
“Happy?” I mutter after swallowing.
“We’ll see in a few minutes.”
I glance at my parents, ready to ask them if they can believe him. But I notice a half smile on my father’s face. The smirk disintegrates when he sees me eyeing him, and he clears his throat.
“The first thing he should’ve done when he came over here,” my father gripes.
“Stop it,” my mother insists, swatting at my father before approaching me. “We’ll have lunch some other time, right?” She looks me in the eyes, searching.
I nod at my mom before excusing myself to go to the bathroom and do an injection of insulin once I know Diego’s brought my favorite quinoa bowl over for lunch.
