We step onto the grass to head for the swings and my heart stalls when I meet eyes that I’ve studied before. He’s just as shocked to see me as I am him, and I have no doubt that his heart also races in fear.

“You okay?” Logan asks.

A little girl with many braids in her hair skips up to him and jumps into his arms. He hugs her, but still watches me. Like I’m the predator. Like I’m what’s wrong in this world. Guess I am.

“Yeah.” I rip my gaze away from the undercover drug annoyer. “That’s a narc over there. I figured him out a few weeks ago. He remembers me and I remember him. He’s with his kid so we should go.”

Logan glances over at him then brushes his fingers on my shoulder. “We can stay.”

“No,” I say. “We can’t.”

Logan

The hunger pangs roll over me like waves and I don’t need to test my blood to know that my blood sugar is low. I walk into the kitchen, toss my keys onto the counter and stop cold.

Both Mom and Dad are sitting at the kitchen table staring at me. Because the past twenty-four hours have been completely messed up, I check out the clock on the microwave and it confirms it’s midnight.

Hated leaving Abby, but she promised not to go without saying goodbye and my parents would go insane if I didn’t return home soon.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” I say to Dad and then to Mom. “Shouldn’t you be...not here?”

They do that long lingering look at each other and I ignore them as I head down the hallway.

“Logan?” Mom calls. “Come back.”

“Testing,” I say.

I open up my drawer that contains my bag of tricks and pause. For years I’ve gone out of my way to hide my diabetes from others, hide while I tested because Mom has had a hard time dealing with the reality of my condition. I took a huge step forward this week, and I’m done acting as if this is something to be ashamed of, as if this is something to ignore.

I grab my bag of stuff, enter the kitchen, then drop into a seat at the table. The seat next to Mom. Mom quits breathing as I prick my finger and then test to confirm I’m running low. I leave everything on the table, my needles in plain sight, and open the fridge.

“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.”