I am not my mother.
I am not my mother.
I am not my mother.
“Did you come here with someone?” he asks.
“M-My sister. Bella.”
“You’re Erin.”
“You know my sister?” I ask.
“She’s dating my best friend.”
“Brodie,” I say as it clicks.
He sticks out his hand to introduce himself. The jersey clings to his arms, the number on his sleeve stretching over his biceps.
I internally scold myself for checking him out, because I shouldn’t be looking at all.
“Hey, I’m Chase,” he says with a welcoming tone.
My fingers twitch at my sides.
He’s just a guy.
I can do this.
It’s just a handshake.
I can have a conversation.
It doesn’t make me like her.
My hand starts to move, and then a loud noise sounds from behind him. He turns to face it, and I become very aware of what I’m doing.
This isn’t who I am. I can’t be my mother.
I can’t.
Luck appears to be on my side because I have a clear path to the exit. My quick footsteps carry me in the direction of the door, and I throw it open, only to find Bella on the other side reaching for the handle, a guy beside her.
“Are you okay?” she asks immediately, concern shadowing her face.
“Yeah,” I say quickly, to reassure her. “It just got really busy in there. I wanted some air.”
“I’ll wait with you,” Bella says.
I step out into the cold air, and the tension inside of me begins to ease with each breath.
“Oh, and this is Brodie,” she says, gesturing to him.
“Hey, Erin, it’s nice to finally meet. I’ve heard a lot about you, from this one,” he says, easy and relaxed. He’s quite tall, definitely around six feet, but shorter than Eighty-Seven.
His eyes are similar to a husky but on the grayer side. His black hair falls longer on the top, the sides neat and freshly trimmed. His tan hints at time spent outdoors—natural, unforced, real.
I notice how he makes no move to head inside, as if he’s happy here, waiting with us.
