Page 2 of Fight Or Flight

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I try to wrangle in my emotions. I want to scream so badly and maybe even hit something—yeah, I really want to hit something. She shouldn’t be worried about her looks or what my sperm donor will think when he sees her. As far as I’m concerned, she’s too good for him. Far too beautiful.

And you know what else? I want to cry. I want to burst into a fit of tears because my mom is dying and instead of spending all our time making memories, we’re sitting in front of a bar, preparing to grovel before a man who doesn’t deserve either of us.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper as she drops her hand from her head and turns to meet my gaze. “And screw him if he doesn’t see that.”

“Brooklyn—”

“No, I mean it,” I interrupt. The tears I have been trying to hold back slip from the corners of my eyes and my mom quickly reaches out to brush them away. “I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to do this. We don’t need him, we never did. Let’s just go home and forget all about Eric Nicholson. He doesn’t want me and you dying won’t change that, so please, can we just get out of here?”

I reach for her wrists and peel her hands away from my face. Choking on a sob, my eyes silently plead with hers.

“Oh, baby, I know this is all very scary,” she cries, tears streaming down her sunken cheeks. “I shouldn’t have taken things so lightly, but I didn’t want our last days to be full of tears and worry. I wanted us to laugh so after I’m gone, it’s my smile you remember and not the chemo treatments or the wigs. But, honey, this is serious, and we are running out of time. I know it sounds selfish, but I can’t leave this earth not sure where my little girl will land. So, please, Brooklyn, please give him a chance. He’s our only hope.”

She draws me closer, pressing her forehead to mine as she stares deep into my eyes, her voice a soft whisper as she utters the next words.

“I’m sure your dad had his reasons for not responding to the letter.”

I don’t mean to act like a petulant teen, and I know it’s the last thing my mother needs or deserves, but I can’t help myself. Something inside me snaps when she refers to Eric as my dad. I inch away from her.

“He’s not my dad, he’s some guy that made it possible for me to exist. That’s not a dad, and we’re both kidding ourselves if we expect him to become one suddenly.”

“You don’t know him,” she argues.

“Yeah, well, maybe you don’t either. You were a kid when you met him and my age when he moved away. Do you really think he hasn’t changed? The truth is, you don’t know Eric either.”

Her lips part, but the objection never leaves her tongue because a blunt force hits the back of our car, knocking her into the steering wheel and me into the dashboard. It takes me a moment to realize what happened and process our car has been hit. I push off the dash and immediately check on my mom before stealing a glance at the rearview mirror.

The front doors swing open and two boys, who appear to be around my age, stumble out. Remaining completely still, their eyes go wide as they simultaneously look from the back of our car to the front of theirs.

“Are you okay?” my mom questions, gripping my forearm. I peel my eyes away from the two teens and look back at my mom, silently cursing myself for not asking her the same question.

“I’m fine. What about you?”

She gives me a quick nod before raking her eyes over me, assessing me for any injuries. The teen boys shouting outside our car startles us both, and we turn to look out the back windshield. For some reason, I focus on the driver as he roughly drags his fingers through his hair.

“They look young, I should see if they’re okay,” my mom says.

She twists around and reaches for the silver handle. Pushing open the door, I watch as she winces slightly as she slides out.

Something is off with her.

“Mom, are you sure you’re okay?” I ask, leaning over the console to get a better look. She hit the steering wheel pretty hard and her body is already so weak.

“I’m fine,” she insists, before closing the door in my face.

I sit there for a second as she starts for the two boys, then I draw in a deep breath. If this isn’t a sign to turn this car around and head back to Connecticut, I’m not sure what is. But my mom is determined. I look over my shoulder once more before reaching for the door and exiting the car too.

“You are so screwed,” the passenger says as I near the back of my mom’s car.

He’s a little shorter than the driver, maybe an inch or two, and his hair is a shade lighter, but his eyes are what really draw my attention. They’re a mix between blue and green and they remind me of the time me and my mom took a trip to Cape May. They are as clear as the ocean we spent the weekend enjoying. They’re also framed by a pair of glasses that he pushes further onto the bridge of his nose.

He turns back to the driver.

“Mom and dad are going to kill you,” the boy taunts. “Actually, I take it back. They’re not going to get the chance to because as soon as Uncle Anthony finds out you took his car for a joyride, he’s going to drop a pair of cement shoes on you.”

Ah, brothers.

That explains the similar features. However, as soon as the driver peels his hands away from his face, I take a longer look at him and a weird feeling immediately creeps into my belly. His eyes are a deeper shade of blue and don’t remind me so much of the ocean as his brother’s do. They’re the color of the brightest, clearest sky and the more I stare, the more that feeling in my belly intensifies.

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