Page 29 of Fight Or Flight

Brooklyn

Anormal teenage girl would’ve spent the last three days overanalyzing the night in the garage with Eric. She would’ve called all her girlfriends and recounted every sweet thing he said and all the ways he stared at her. She might even tell her mom. But my friends were back in Connecticut, and they didn’t even know that I had up and moved without so much as a goodbye text. Telling my mom wasn’t an option either because she was too busy dying.

So, I immediately pushed those stolen moments in the garage to the back of my head and reminded myself I was not a normal teen.

I didn’t have time for butterflies and boys.

I needed to be strong.

Brave.

A hurricane.

It was easy to dismiss the butterflies, but the boy who gave them to me was another story. Eric avoided me like the plague and no matter how much I tried not to obsess over that and focus on my mom, I’d find myself wondering if I imagined the way he stared at me when I was sitting on my dad’s bike.

Even now, as I sit here jotting down everything from the conversation I had with my mom moments before she fell asleep, I can’t stop thinking about the boy standing outside the window washing his dad’s truck. Well, I think he’s waxing his dad’s truck. One minute he’s got a rag in his hand, the next he’s holding a paintbrush painting the fence. It’s very strange, but that seems to be the Montgomery mantra.

A knock sounds on the bedroom door, startling me for a second. I turn my head and spot Riggs, dressed in his signature leather vest, leaning against the doorjamb. His gaze slides from my sleeping mom to me and his lips curl into a small smile.

“How she doing?” he whispers, careful not to wake her.

They may be strange, but they are incredibly thoughtful, especially him. Over the last three days, he’s been in and out of the house, but as soon as his pipes are parked, he checks in on me and my mom. At night, after they get Bella to bed, he and Lauren sit with us. The first night, the four of us watched a movie together. The second night, we bundled up and Riggs carried my mom out to the yard where they had a firepit and told us stories about my dad. My favorite story was how my dad gave Riggs his road name. Apparently, that’s a big deal for a biker and Riggs was expecting his best friend to give him a total bad-ass nickname. Instead, my dad paid homage to his roots and the million-dollar Montgomery family business by naming him after an oil rig. I’m still wondering why he calls himself Tiger, though.

Drawing my attention back to my mom, my eyes instantly fall to her chest and I wait for it to rise and fall. It’s a habit I’ve adapted over the last few days.

“She’s getting more and more tired,” I admit.

The doctors warned us this would happen and said it was a sign of her body shutting down. But knowing what to expect doesn’t make it any easier.

Riggs pushes off the doorjamb and strides toward me, taking a seat on the chair next to me. He doesn’t say anything at first and the more he looks at my mom, I wonder if he’s counting her breaths too.

“She’s comfortable, though, right? No pain or discomfort?” he asks, still keeping his eyes on her.

I lift my gaze from her chest and eye the intravenous drip that supplies her with pain meds. Thank God for Lauren’s brief stint as a nursing student. She changes the bag and has been acting as my mom’s personal nurse, bathing her, and feeding her too.

“Not that I know of,” I reply, bringing my eyes back to him. He cups my shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze before tipping his chin to the notebook in my lap.

“Whatcha got there?”

I glance at the notebook and feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment as I close it and tuck the pen in the spiral binding.

“It’s silly…” My voice trails as I bite the inside of my cheek. After a moment, I find the courage to answer the question. “I’ve been writing some of the things she says down so that when she’s gone, I don’t forget them.” As soon as the words leave me, I feel the tears flood my eyes, but I force myself to hold them at bay. I’ve cried in front of this man way too many times.

Be a hurricane.

“That’s not silly,” he objects and surprises me by draping his arm around my shoulders. He brings me close and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “I think it’s beautiful. You know your good pal Riggs knows a thing or two about electronics. I can set you up with a GoPro and we can record mom. I’ll transfer everything onto a thumb drive and that way whenever you want to see your mom or hear her voice, all you have to do is plug it in and press play.”

I had thought about recording her with my phone, but every time I reached for it, I stopped myself because I felt the early onset of tears and the last thing I wanted was to cry in front of my mom.

Be strong.

Be brave.

Be a hurricane.

Maybe if someone else did it, I wouldn’t be an emotional wreck.

“I’d like that,” I say hoarsely, and Riggs flashes me a smile.

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