“You don’t look fine.” Mom grabs his wrist and checks his pulse, something she learned to do when Jacob and I were growing up, and she would have CPR class every summer for all of her friends and whoever else wanted to join. I don’t know what she feels, but when her eyes come to me, they are filled with panic. “Call an ambulance.”

“I don’t need an ambulance.” Dad rubs his chest harder as his breathing seems to become erratic.

Dropping my bag off my shoulder, I start to dig through all the random crap I have in it for my cell phone.

“I got it, baby,” Dayton tells me, bending down to kiss my forehead before stepping out of the room with his phone against his ear. I watch him go, with my heart in my throat, then spin toward my father when there is a thud.

“Dad!” I rush across the room, dodging the bottle of champagne that is rolling across the floor.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” he tries to assure me, but I can tell that even he’s worried now. With my own panic starting to make me lightheaded, I remember a news clip I saw one time.

“Do you have any aspirin?” I ask Mom, and she meets my gaze.

“I think so.”

“I’ll stay with him while you go look,” I tell her, and she swallows, looking at Dad.

“I’m okay, honey,” he whispers to her, and she leans in, pressing her mouth to his before rushing out of the kitchen.

“Jacob.” I turn to my brother, my stomach clenching when I see that he’s white as a ghost. His eyes slowly meet mine. “Come help me get him to the living room.”

“I’m okay here,” Dad argues.

“You’ll be better on the couch.” I slide under his arm to help him stand as Dayton walks into the kitchen.

“An ambulance is on the way,” he tells me with the phone still at his ear.

Thank God. I sag in relief.

“I found it.” Mom stumbles over her own feet as she runs back into the kitchen. “I’m okay,” she assures us as she rights herself, looking between me, Dad, and Dayton, who is trying to take over my spot under Dad’s arm. “Why are you moving him?”

“I think he’d be more comfortable on the couch.”

“I think he should stay where he is. He shouldn’t move around.” She opens the bottle she’s holding and shakes out one aspirin. “Chew this up,” she orders.

“Give me some water,” Dad tells her, but she shakes her head.

“No, chew it up. It will work faster.” She juts her hand toward him to urge him to take from her.

My dad rolls his eyes. “I’m not chewing it up, hon⁠—”

“Chew up the fucking pill!” she shrieks, and my eyes widen.

My mom never curses. Or yells. Ever.