Page 32 of Fight Or Flight

“Are you serious right now?” I ask.

“Not about the PBA card, but yes, the car is yours.” He smiles and takes my hand. Turning it over, he drops the keys into my palm. “Take it for a spin.”

Shocked, I close my fist around the keys and look back at the car. The only reason I even got my license in the first place was so I’d be able to drive my mom to and from chemo, and mostly that’s what I did. I didn’t go joyriding or out with my friends. I didn’t even use it to drive to and from school. Now, my mom is giving it to me and it’s probably the last thing she’ll ever give me.

“While you’re at it, why don’t you go pick up a couple of pizzas for dinner?” he says, handing me a hundred-dollar bill.

Swallowing, I try to find my voice.

“I’m from Connecticut,” I blurt. My voice is hoarse, and tears are stinging my eyes. “I don’t know where the pizzeria is.”

I don’t know where the pizzeria is, and my mom just gave me her car.

And you…you strange man…you fixed it and gave me tinted windows, so I’d fit in with the cool kids.

I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.

“Take the karate kid with you. Eric!”

It’s hard to cry when Riggs offers a big dose of humor with everything he does. He makes people want to smile through their pain and if that’s not a gift, I’m not really sure what is. Still a little flabbergasted, my eyes shift to Eric who stands across the lawn and I watch as he drops the paintbrush on the grass. Riggs crooks a finger, silently ordering him to join us and Eric, the ever-obedient karate kid, jogs toward us.

“I’m almost done with the fence.”

“Fuck the fence,” Riggs says. “You learned your lesson.”

“I did?”

“Show me how you paint the fence.”

This time I don’t give myself a chance to think about it. I do what comes naturally, and a giggle slips past my lips. Confusion mars Eric’s features as his eyes jump from me to his dad.

“What?”

“Up and down,” I instruct, mimicking the motion Riggs taught me. Eric looks at me like I’ve lost my mind and maybe I have. It sure feels that way. Arching an eyebrow, he follows my lead and flicks his wrist up and down. A proud grin spreads across Riggs’ face and he claps his son on the back.

“Thatta boy,” Riggs praises. He turns to me and shoves the money into my jacket pocket. “Mr. Miyagi likes pepperoni on his pizza.”

“Come on, Karate Kid,” I say, holding up the key ring. “I’m driving.”

And for the first time in months, I let myself be a normal teenage girl.

Butterflies and all.

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