She takes a shaky breath, and blows it out slowly.

“I just… I always thought it was because of my dad, you know? The reason she was like this. I thought it started because of my dad’s death.” It takes me a second, but then I get what she isn’t saying. My hand stills on her back, where I was rubbing it. Shit.

“You mean . . . ”

She nods.

My brain puts two and two together, and winds up with the worst possible answer.

Shit.

If this pile is anything to go by, Star’s mom had probably lost a baby on top of losing her husband.

Fuck.

That really sucks.

Star looks like she’s about to cry, like her whole world has been shaken on its axis, and I hate seeing her like that. “Look,” I say, “Maybe it isn’t what we think. I mean, that was a long time ago, right? These diapers don’t look that old. Hell, maybe they’re not diapers at all. They’re pretty sturdy boxes.” I reach out and rap my knuckles on one of them. “Maybe she just liked to store stuff in them.”

“Maybe,” she says, but she sounds unconvinced. I don’t blame her. I know I’m grasping at straws here, so I reach into my back pocket and pull out the utility knife I’ve been lugging around. I reach up and pull one of the boxes off of the pile, let it thud to the floor in front of me.

“There’s only one way to know for sure,” I say, and hold the knife out to her, handle-first. “You want to do the honors?”

I can tell she doesn’t. Not really. But she squares her shoulders and takes the knife from me and hunkers down in front of the box. Within seconds, the thing is open, like a band-aid that’s ripped off quickly, just to get it over with.

Good girl.

She jerks the flaps open, and I have to smother my reaction.

Fuck.

Diapers.

“It might not mean anything,” I say before I can stop myself. And she turns to look up at me, questions in her eyes. “Look,” I say. “This could have just been one of her things, right? I mean, we found like eighty pairs of gardening gloves in the shed, right? And, not to be mean or anything, but I don’t think your mom ever did a lick of gardening in her life. This could just be one of her maybe-one-day things, right?”

Star lets out a shuddering sigh. “Yeah,” she says, and flips the flaps of the box closed again. “That must be it.” She’s saying all the right words, but I can tell she doesn’t believe them.

Never in my life have I wanted to wrap my arms around a girl just because. It’s always been just a means to an end. But right now it’s all that I want, my arms around her.

She’s hurting. She’s been dealt a load of shit and there’s too much for her to shovel alone. Who the hell would do this to their kid?

“So,” she says, pulling herself back up and rubbing her palms against her jeans. They’re filthy, just like mine, but she’s no priss. She’s been through hell and back and has yet to do so much as blink. “What are we going to do with all these diapers?”

Yep, I think, and smile. Just a little. Without a doubt, toughest girl I’ve ever met. I have an instant jerk in my gut, and I just barely stop myself from opening my fool mouth and offering to help her make a baby to solve the whole diaper surplus problem. Just. Barely. Instead I bite my tongue until the urge passes, and shrug. “Why don’t we leave this room for now?” I ask. “I mean, it’s not like diapers go bad, and we might as well deal with the actual garbage first, right? Give us a little time to figure out if there’s anyone who’ll take them.”

“Yeah,” she says, and off in the distance Bruiser barks. Then there’s the sound of a chase and a sudden crash coming from the backyard, and she snorts. “Maybe we should check on the damage in the backyard first.”

I nod. “Works for me,” I say. She nods one last time and reaches out to pull the door to the diaper room shut. As the door clicks into place something inside me cracks, and I reach out and wrap an arm around her shoulders, and give her a squeeze.

It’s the most awkward hug ever, and considering how fucking distant and detached my parents are, that’s saying something. She kind of freezes up, body going stiff next to me, so I give her a quick slap on the back and step away before I make it even worse.

Then I hightail it to the backyard, muttering something about Bruiser being a menace.

I need a drink.

Fuck, do I ever need a drink.

Star

I’m ripping my grilled cheese sandwich into pieces when Ash pulls his burger off the barbecue. He doesn’t even have a plate in his hand, just the bun. And the bun is completely plain. But he doesn’t even stop. It’s all a single motion. Flipper-barbecue-burger-bun-mouth. There isn’t even a pause. I can feel my mouth drop open as I watch, my eyes watering in sympathy at the burns he’s inflicting on himself, before I gather myself enough to say something.

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask, dropping a too-hot piece of sandwich back on the paper plate in my lap. I wave my fingers around a bit. The cheese is still almost molten hot, and I took my sandwich off way before he did. I’m amazed he isn’t dying.

“What?” he asks through a mouthful. “’S good.” But judging by the way his eyes start to scrunch up, he’s full of shit.

“Yeah, right,” I say. “You just let me know when you want me to administer first aid. It’s the least I can do.” I pick up one of the cooler bits of sandwich and dunk it into the tiny pot of soup I made. Ash had looked at me like I was trying to climb to the moon on a ladder of cheese when I brought out the pot of tomato soup. Apparently, cooking soup on the barbecue isn’t socially acceptable, but whatever. I’m running out of money and my mom had stored probably a thousand cans of soup in the pantry. If it hasn’t hit its best before date yet, I’m eating it. Bruiser is on the grass between us, looking back and forth all askance, like he’s trying to figure out which of us is more likely to give up our food. Joke’s on him. I’m starving.

“You’re just jealous,” he says, and takes another victorious bite. The burger’s juice drips down his chin and, dropping the spatula down on the barbecue’s little table, he chases after it with his palm. I kind of want to chase after it with my tongue, but that’s more about the fact that Ash seems to be getting hotter with each passing day, and less about his burning-hot hamburger. I shift in my seat a little. The wood of the porch steps is digging into the backs of my legs, but for all the junk my mother had in the backyard, a surplus of usable lawn chairs doesn’t seem to be part of it. So like always, I am making due. Besides, it means I can keep my tiny pot of tomato soup next to me for easy dipping, and effective guarding from Bruiser, who wouldn’t have found the height of a table to be that much of a challenge.

“Jealous of what?” I ask. “The fact that you’re cooking yourself from the inside out, or the fact that everything you eat seems to be a random shade of brown?”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, for one, it’s disgusting and you’re going to burn the crap out of your mouth, and two, you’re going to get scurvy.”

He scoffs at me, and takes another deliberate bite of his burger. “Like you’re one to talk,” he says, and nods down at my lap. I look down. The paper plate still has half a grilled cheese sandwich and the grease is kind of making the plate weak, but there’s nothing wrong with my dinner.

“What?” I ask, looking back up at him. I hold up a piece of the sandwich. “It’s healthy. I put tomato in it. See?” I waggle the bit at him, showing him the tiny red edge of tomato that’s smooshed between melted cheese. I couldn’t use much. I’m not able to buy too much fresh stuff, not when we only have the tiny beer cooler we found in the garage. Well, sort of. Beside the garage. We haven’t quite gotten around to facing that monster yet. But soon.