Would You Rather

40 - WYR: Turkish coffee with or without your father?

FIDAN

Being cleared to play again is the best I've felt in days. Jorgen pokes around my neck, asks about the remaining sensation from the nerve pressure, and then I'm good to go. Fucking euphoric.

My mother is a bit less into the idea. She's about thirteen seconds away from walking halfway across the city of Detroit, at ten in the morning in the middle of December, to go yell at Jorgen and Jack and potentially half the coaching staff.

"It's fine, Anne," I explain.

"What if you get hit again tomorrow, hm?" She challenges me. "Do you break your spine? Hm?"

"No. Worst that can happen is I get another hernia in the same disc."

"Unbelievable. There's no way you're fully healed."

I sigh, looking at her. "Remember when Dad made me play with a broken femur? And you thought it was fine?"

"I was, well, he said-"

"I am in unbelievably better condition to play right now than I was then. Do you want me to call Doctor Quack and have him tell you that?"

She thinks about that, staring me down. "What do you mean by Doctor Quack?"

"It means he's not a doctor and he gives bad medical advice."

"He gives fine advice, maybe just a bit... archaic." She seems to come across a conclusion after another half second of considering. "What does Finley think?"

I blank, pulling my lip between my teeth and biting.

"She doesn't approve, does she?"

I swallow.

"Of course she doesn't because she's reasonable and doesn't want you to break your back."

"She hasn't... looked at it."

"But she's a doctor."

I frown. "She hasn't been to medical school yet. She's better than Dad is but- why are we discussing this?"

"Because you're going to go out there and paralyze yourself."

The poor people sitting near us in this coffee shop. Hearing all about my injuries and my ex-situationship's academics.

"Why haven't you had Finley look at it?"

"Anne, there's not much to see. And the MRI has been looked at loads of times." And also we broke up. Or whatever breaking up is for people who were never dating.

I take another drink off the top of my coffee. I had to find the only coffee shop in the city, fuck, probably the country, run by turkish people because my mother, who loves coffee, hates American coffee. She's right, but, it's a big ask for foreign coffee in the US that is, apparently, run by Dunkin.

"Why are you giving me sad eyes?" She asks, reaching out and brushing under my rather fuzzy chin.

"I'm not giving you sad eyes." I sit back, blinking, schooling my expression as best I can.

"Yes you were," she starts in again. "You might be my son, but you make expressions exactly like my mother."

That's the first time she's ever said that. "All of Finley's friends used to say that I make huge expressions."

"You do."

"And nobody has ever told me?"

"It's part of your charm." She wraps both her hands around her mug, mimicking my hold. "You're avoiding the sad eyes question."