Fight For Her

Chapter Two

Stepping down from what feels like a thousand feet above the ground after getting ice cream, I get out of Jack's truck and land with a thud that sends a jolt up my legs. Jack gets out of his own side and walks around to me, settling his arms naturally around my waist as he pouts.

"Are you sure you can't come over, babe?"

"You know my dad wants me home, and you have practice with the guys."

"I'd skip it for you."

"We both know you wouldn't."

He chuckles and swoops his head down to kiss me. "It's the thought that counts, though, right?" he asks, tapping my nose with his. "I'll see you tomorrow morning with my famous blueberry pancakes. I know they're your favorite. Love you."

Jack hops back into the truck, and then loops around the small fountain in my driveway before driving straight out and back onto the road, his diesel engine making the ground shake. He roars out of sight, blasting some sort of music from his speakers, and I head to my front door.

My house is not new and, compared to Jack's house, as well as those of most of his friends, it could be considered small. To those on the poor end of town, however, it would be on the larger end of real estate.

It's a brick, three-story home with stark black shutters and white columns that decorate the large, stone-finished front porch. Just above the porch lives a beautiful yet tiny balcony that the second-floor master leads out to, and there is one smaller balcony that comes off of the back of the house on the third floor, my room. Our driveway extends for nearly half a mile, flowing from the road through our bright green yard, accentuating how large our property is, and ends at a beautiful black fountain placed in the middle of an array of yellow and red flowers that make up a T for Tucker, our last name.

I have loved growing up here. My neighborhood is friendly and I could ride my bike to and from old friends' houses when I was a kid, seeing other modest houses and realizing how fortunate my family is. But does it really matter where you live as long as you are able to call it home?

Wow, my philosophy class this morning must have really gotten to me.

As I walk inside, I call out that I'm home and I'm greeted by my mother, who is sitting on the couch in the den watching some competitive cooking show. Our den is filled with a wraparound tan-colored leather sectional, a large flat-screen TV settled comfortably above our mantle, and beautiful paintings that intermingle with the pictures of our family that line the walls. The room is completed with my dad's dark-blue and red plaid recliner, which he refuses to get rid of.

"Hey, Scarlet, you're getting home late," my mom observes. "Long day?"

"Jack and I got ice cream after school. How was your day?"

"Same old, learned a few new recipes." She nods at the cooking channel playing on the TV. "I figured you'd like to try one out with me."

"Oh! What type of recipe?"

Taking a spot next to her as we talk, I throw my feet up on the ottoman and kick my shoes onto the floor next to it. My mom is nothing short of gorgeous, and if you didn't see the love between her and my father and didn't know how unbelievably smart she is, you might consider her a trophy wife. She has shoulder-length brown hair with naturally lighter streaks running through it. Her eyes are perfectly proportional to the rest of her face and are a light shade of brown. And her smile is the softest smile you will ever see on anyone. After everything my family has been through, my mom has proven how strong she is. She's had the hardest time of us all, but she has never let life's tragedies impact her love for me and my father. With some parents it's hard to tell what they looked like back in their glory days, but I think my mom is still living hers.