Chasing Impossible (Pushing the Limits #5)(25)

Mom plops down on my bed and messes with my hair. “You should have called me. I would have been with you at the hospital. You shouldn’t have been alone.”

Damn. She knows about Abby. I rub the sleep out of my eyes before checking out the clock. It’s eleven in the morning and I’m rolling out of bed. Shit. I overslept. Dad’s going to be a powder keg. “The appointment.” The specialist about my diabetes.

“I rescheduled it.” Dad has a hip cocked in my doorway looking as dead as I feel. He’s in a pair of sweatpants and a white undershirt. Appears I’m not the only one Mom bulldozed out of a deep sleep.

Dizziness disorients me. With Mom in my room, even with her words, I thought I was in her apartment in Louisville. A quick scan confirms I’m at Dad’s. A stack of award medals grouped together near trophies on the floor. My dresser. My mirror. My bed stand. Dirty clothes in piles mixed with piles of clean ones. Not much else.

Mom decorates for me at her place because I refuse to do it for myself. My current room in her apartment has wind chimes. Damned if I know why.

I set my feet on the floor and scratch my bare chest before picking up my cell. Two new messages. One from Noah. The other from Isaiah. Both saying the same thing. Abby’s out of Recovery and sleeping on and off, but when she wakes she is in pain.

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 crystal 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.

“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.