Page 48 of Fight or Flight

I try to ignore Claire’s things that are in my way, fighting with the weird need to sniff her clothes or pillows like a total creeper.

“I’m sorry, man, but I gotta say this. Your girl is a total slob.” Tommy says after a while, as he almost loses balance after tripping on some of the stuff lying around on the floor.

“Nah, man. She’s just... Chaotic,” I find myself replying as I continue to draw the space. “A beautiful chaos.”

“Wow, you still got it bad,” he laughs, and I lift my head up from my project to glare at him before snapping the binder shut.

“Come on, we have to get upstairs and finish before the time is up,” I grumble.

Surprisingly, the second floor is in total contrast to the disarray downstairs. The door to the main bedroom is open, the door of the next room is slightly ajar, and I can hear Jenny’s soft voice mixed with the murmurs of a little boy.

I enter the first room and almost snort at the meticulous way the bed is made, knowing that sometimes Brody’s military background shines through his pedantic behaviors. The whole bedroom is spotless, and even the clothes in the open closet are neatly stacked.

Clearly, the chaos is kept outside this room.

I take a quick sketch of the room with the addition of extra space if we remodel the house structure and then motion with my head for Tommy to follow me.

I knock on the door to the kid’s room, and when I’m told to enter, I step through the threshold only to stop short.

Jenny sits on the carpet with tears running down her cheeks, one of the toys squeezed tightly to her breasts. The boy doesn’t pay her any mind as he continues to play and talk to his mom without waiting for any answer.

“Uh, is this a bad time?” I ask awkwardly, aware that Tommy leans over my shoulder to see what’s going on.

She waves her hand dismissively and rolls her eyes. “Don’t mind me. Just stupid pregnancy hormones.” But the sad look in her tells me that it’s actually more than that. My face must’ve shown my doubt because she sighed and glanced at her son. “Henry, baby, can you grab your toys and go downstairs to play for a bit? These nice men want to take a look around your room to make it better.”

Henry eyes us both with interest before raising his hand in a small wave.

I grin at him and wave back before observing as he obediently stands up from the carpet, grabs two monster trucks in both hands, bends to kiss Jenny on the cheek, and then slides between me and Tommy to slowly descend the stairs.

I don’t know much about kids. But that one is a bit weird.

When I turn my head, I see the woman trying to get to her feet, and I rush to give her a hand. She takes it gladly and then fixes her dress.

“Thanks,” she mutters.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to call the boss?” I ask her, and she immediately gives me a look of displeasure.

“Don’t you even dare. He’s oversensitive enough as it is.”

“All right?” I reply as she continues to cry, and I look to my friend for help. Tommy gives me a shrug and spreads his arms as if trying to ask, “What do you want me to do?”

“So, um, is the baby okay?” I ask awkwardly.

“Yeah, she’s fine. I’m fine; everything is fucking fine.” Jenny answers but swipes angrily at her wet face. “It’s just that everything is a goddamn mess, you know?”

No. I don’t know. I have no idea what is happening, actually. But I don’t say that; instead, I question her gently. “Do you mean Claire? Is she, um... She looked sick the other day.”

“Claire is... she’s getting there. It’s not easy watching her struggle, but-” Her eyes snap to me. “I guess I shouldn’t really speak with you about that.”

“Um. Probably not,” I scratch at my head nervously. “So if it’s not her, then why are you crying? If you don’t mind me asking,” I rush to say and glance at Tommy again, seeking guidance.

Jenny looks above my shoulder with her brows pulled down, her eyes unfocused.

“No. It’s just... Sometimes Henry says the weirdest shit out of the blue, and I think we underestimated what he may or may not have remembered from... And I hate that my son was a witness to our fucked up shit. I tried so hard to protect him from that, but I guess I failed, and I worry about how it may impact him in the future. I’m such a terrible parent,” she says with a sob, and I grab her arm to guide her to sit on the kid's bed.

I only know bits and pieces of the shit with Sheriff Wallace, and I have no idea what to say to that.

“Shit, I’m sorry. Really, it’s the hormones. I don’t know why I’m telling you this. That was the worst trauma dump ever,” Jenny sniffles.