Page 42 of Fight Or Flight

“I think Robert is probably a better choice for a wingman.”

Of course she heard that part. The universe hates me.

“I don’t need a wingman,” I argue.

Not this time.

“Good,” my mom says, lifting the wine bottle to her lips. “I can’t handle the two of you on the prowl right now.” The wine bottle pauses at her lips and I feel her gaze intently on me. “Oh, boy,” she mutters. “I’m gonna need more wine.”

Peeling my eyes away from Brooklyn to glance at my mom, I watch her chug the wine. Things must’ve gone bad at the bake sale.

“Uh…are you okay?” I ask.

She lowers the bottle and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, all while staring at me with an all too knowing look in her eyes. That’s the thing about moms. They’re fucking perceptive. They know what you’re thinking and feeling before you do, and as my mom continues to stare at me, I become all too aware that she isn’t chugging wine because she’s had a bad day. She knows her cub has the hots for the girl standing next to her.

“She had a rough day at the bake sale today,” Brooklyn supplies, drawing my attention back to her. She eyes the board games for a second before lifting her head. “What’s with the games?”

Beads of sweat form on my forehead as I look at the games.

Abort! Abort! Abort!

“Well …” I scratch the back of my head. “I thought …” I wipe the sweat from my brow.

Everyone stares at me like I’m having a seizure or something, except Rob. The world's worst wingman just fucking grins. I look back at Brooklyn. “I thought you might want to take a break from the movie marathon and play Monopoly with me.”

“Yep, definitely going to need more wine,” mom mutters.

Swiping more sweat from my forehead, I turn to her.

“You can play too,” I tell her. “We can make it a family affair.”

“Nice choice of words, kid,” Rob taunts.

Before I can jump over the breakfast nook and kill the bastard, our dad enters the kitchen. He goes straight for my mom and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Brooklyn stares at them for a moment, before turning and grabbing the games. Hitching them under her arm, she smiles at me.

“I suck at Monopoly,” she reveals. “But I’m a boss at Scrabble. Game on.”

* * *

Game night was a success.In between me kicking Brooklyn’s ass in Monopoly and her kicking mine in Scrabble, my parents and her mom all took us on a trip down memory lane. Brooklyn wasn’t the only one learning things about her dad. I too learned some very interesting facts about mine. For instance, the leather clad hellraiser once wore ascots. Of course, I didn’t know what that was, but after a quick Google search, I discovered it was some fancy tie thing. Yep, you heard me correctly, my biker dad was once a posh nerd.

When it appeared as though Joss was struggling to keep her eyes open, we all cleared the room to let her rest. Mom and dad started talking in code and before me or Brooklyn could decipher any of it, dad started chasing his precious kitten up the stairs.

“I may not be able to commit to a career, but I can tell you for certain I want that kind of love. I want my future husband to chase me around the house and look at me like I’m the only thing that exists,” she said thoughtfully.

In an instant, I wanted that too.

I mean, I didn’t want to marry her or anything. I wasn’t that far gone. But let’s call a spade a spade, I was already looking at her like she was the only thing that existed, and I really wouldn’t mind chasing her around the house. In fact, I wanted to catch her, wrap my arms around her waist like my dad often wrapped his around my mom and kiss her until she forgot every worry.

I really wanted to fucking kiss her.

Since chasing her and kissing her wasn’t really an option, I asked her to come downstairs with me. She didn’t look like she really wanted to go to bed and I wasn’t ready for the night to end. To my pleasant surprise, she followed me down to the basement and into my new room.

Ten minutes ago, I was happy to have her.

Now, not so much.

“We need to switch beds,” she declares, eyeing the pull-out I have been sleeping on for nearly two weeks. “At least for tonight,” she adds, spinning around to face me.

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