Page 35 of Fight Or Flight

A smile ticks the corners of her mouth as she rolls her eyes.

“I like the Mets.”

I gasp and touch a hand to my wounded heart.

“Say it isn’t so.”

“Oh, but it is.”

“Well, I guess you had to have one flaw.”

The pizzeria comes into view and I point to an open spot in front, instructing her to park. We make our way inside the packed restaurant and place our order. The guy behind the counter tells us it’s going to be about a half hour to forty minutes, so we grab a couple of sodas and slide into a booth in the back of the restaurant. Neither of us say anything right away, and I watch as Brooklyn’s eyes dart around the place. It’s like she’s purposely trying to avoid me.

I don’t like it, not one bit.

Lifting my ass off the wooden bench, I dig into the pocket of my jeans and pull out a quarter.

“Heads or tails?”

That gets her attention and those pretty brown eyes move from the ridiculous chef statue that sits on a pedestal next to bathroom, to me.

Much better.

“Why are we flipping a coin?”

“Because you’d rather stare at that hideous lump of plaster than make conversation with me and I have no idea how to talk to you unless it’s the middle of the night and there’s a sleeve of Oreos involved. Heads or tails?”

“Tails but how is that going to solve anything?”

“Tails you get to ask me a question. Heads I get to ask you one.”

Before she can object or take cover behind the statue, I toss the coin in the air, catch it with my right and flip it onto the top of my left hand.

“Heads!” I boast, wiggling my eyebrows. Again, she tries not to smile and fails. I crack my knuckles and lean back against the bench. “Alright, let’s start simple. What’s your favorite hobby?”

Lame, I know. But asking her if she’s got a boyfriend back in Connecticut right out of the gate seems a bit crazy—even for me.

She cocks her head to the side and contemplates her answer.

“I don’t have much time for hobbies. I like to read and sometimes I write.” She pauses for a moment. “I wrote for my high school newspaper freshman year. Does your school have a newspaper?”

“Not that I know of. There is this digital newsletter thing that they post on the website, though. But if you really like to write, they have some other programs you can apply for.”

“I don’t think I’ll have time for any of that. When I go back to school, I’m going to be so busy trying to make up credits.”

“How much school have you missed?”

“Not that much. I didn’t start taking off until the doctors diagnosed her as terminal and even then, my mom forced me to go to school most days. But I’m not going back until…well…you know.”

Only I could fuck this up. Instead of taking her mind off all her troubles and getting to know her better, I’m about to make her fucking cry in the middle of Sunset Pizzeria—in front of that creepy statue to boot. Desperate to change the subject, I go back to the initial question I wanted to lead with.

“Do you have a boyfriend back in Connecticut?”

Her gaze snaps back to mine.

“Shit, that was blunt,” I mutter, scrambling to find an explanation for the sudden case of word vomit. “I saw you starting to get upset and wanted to change the subject.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “It’s a random question and I should point out that it’s not your turn to ask.”

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