And arguing with her wasn’t an option.
“Eat your fried chicken, Stephen,” my mother said.
“I’m eating it as fast as I can, Mother,” I responded.
“You’re picking. I don’t like it when you pick. Pick, pick, pick. It’s all you’ve done since you got here. Did you eat with those boys before you came?” she asked.
“No. I told you, I came straight from home. The food’s good, I just…”
She reached below the table and handed Bradley another chicken bone. “You just what? Stephen Vincent Ames, you need to forget about that woman. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back. You deserve better, and it’s been what? Two years?”
“Don’t feed him chicken bones. It’ll kill him. And it’s been a year,” I said.
Bradley, an English bulldog, was my mother’s best friend. She talked to him as if he understood every word she said, and fed him whatever he would eat. According to my mother, Bradley was my younger brother, and she even held birthday parties for him, making him wear a hat and eat birthday cake every year.
“He’s a walking garbage disposal, he’ll be fine. And don’t think changing the subject will make me forget what we were talking about. She didn’t even want kids, Stephen, it was only a matter of time. And I haven’t seen her for two years, so it’s hard for me to remember exactly when you were divorced, but she left you long before you were divorced, I can tell you that, ” she said.
I inhaled a shallow breath and cleared my throat. “I’m not thinking about her.”
I scooped up a forkful of some strange corn, bean, and vegetable salad she had prepared and carefully lifted the substance to my mouth. Fried chicken on the Fourth of July was one of her rituals, and it generally included several side dishes, many of which she now obtained off of Pinterest. Some of the new recipes were great and some were nothing short of awful. I did my best to swallow the unidentifiable spicy mixture, but it was proving to be rather difficult. As I rolled it around in my mouth and reached for my glass of water, she raised her eyebrows and sighed.
“You don’t like the corn salsa?” she asked.
“It’s salsa?” I asked as I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth in an effort to rid myself of the taste.
“Yes, what did you think it was?” she asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. Hell, you’ve got a gallon of it there in that bowl, I thought it was a salad or something.”
“Salsa, Stephen. It’s corn salsa. I got if off of Pinterest. Suzette likes it, and so does Randy,” she said.
“Well, take it over to Suzette and Randy’s house,” I said.
She reached over the table and smacked the back of my knuckles with her butter knife.
“God damn it,” I howled as I pulled my hand away. “Fuck.”
I raised my hand and stared at the back of it, fully expecting to see blood. A three inch long red welt began to rise before my eyes.
“You hear that, Bradley? We’re two dollars richer,” she said as she pointed toward the top of the refrigerator with her chicken leg.
I knew better than to argue. I stood, pulled out my wallet, and walked to the refrigerator. After digging through my wallet and finding two one dollar bills, I pulled the jar from the top of the refrigerator and dropped the money inside.
“You smell like smoke. Have you been smoking?” she asked.
“No, I quit,” I said, telling the truth for the most part.
“I think you were telling quite a fib to Bradley and me earlier when we were cooking the chicken. I want you to know that, Stephen. You’re my little boy and I can see right through you. It’s what mothers do,” she said.
I continued to eat, acting as if I didn’t hear her.
She paused and pointed her half-eaten chicken leg at me. “You’ve been riding since you were six years old. You and I both know you didn’t wreck your father’s motorcycle. I want to know who beat you up. What happened?”
“I dumped it in some sand,” I said.
“Stephen Vincent. Both your eyes are stitched up, and you look like hell. What happened?” she asked.
I pointed at the jar with my fork.
She shook her head. “Hell isn’t a curse word, it’s a place. And it’s a place you’re going to end up living if you keep telling your mother fibs.”
“I dumped the bike, Mother,” I sighed.
“It doesn’t have a scratch on it,” she said, shaking her head from side to side as she spoke.
I cocked my head and stared in disbelief. “It’s covered in scratches, how would you know?”
She raised her index finger in the air and glared at me. “I rode on that bike for years. I know where every scratch is. Fine, Stephen, just fine.”
“I met a girl,” I said flatly as I picked through the pile of chicken.
“Pardon me? I would have sworn you said you met a girl,” she said.
“I did,” I said as I continued to pick through the chicken. “Did you buy a breastless chicken?”
“Here, take mine,” she said as she handed me her chicken breast. “Now, about this girl. Is she the reason you got beat up?”
“No, I met her one night when I ran out of gas. She gave me a ride to the gas station. She was really nice. It’s nothing, I was just making conversation,” I said as I bit into the chicken.
“Bradley’s starving, give him your bones,” she said as she waved her hand toward my plate.
“He shouldn’t eat chicken bones, and he weighs fifty pounds anyway. And thirty of it’s fat,” I said.
“Take it back, he’s not fat,” she said.
“You can’t take things back after you say ‘em, and he is too,” I said.
“You sure can. You say ‘I take it back.’ Now, who’s this girl? Does she want kids?” she asked.
“How the hell would I know? I told you, she gave me a ride to the gas station,” I responded.
One thing my mother always detested about Natalie was that she was outspoken regarding her lack of interest in having children, and my mother dreamed of the day she would have grandchildren. It was a subject Natalie and I discussed often and never quite agreed on.
“Is she pretty?” she asked.
I nodded my head. “Beautiful. Dark hair, like yours.”
“Does she have tattoos?” she asked.
“None that I could see,” I said.
My mother accepted the fact I had tattoos, but believed everyone else with tattoos was an obvious criminal or had spent time in prison. Women with tattoos, as far as she was concerned, were trouble.
“So are you seeing her?” she asked.
I dropped my chicken breast onto my plate. “Gas. She took me to get gas. That’s it.”
“Did you get her phone number?” she asked.
I rested my forearms on the table, glared at her, and raised both eyebrows.
“You need to get a phone, Stephen. This is ridiculous,” she said. “Everyone has a phone.”
“I had a phone and now I don’t. No worries, I know where she lives,” I said. “I could always stop by.”
“Don’t be a stalker, Stephen. It’s not nice,” she said as she reached for her glass of tea. “I saw on Bluebloods the other night what happens to stalkers.”
“Jesus…” I sighed as I reached for my chicken.
“Take her some flowers, tell her thank you, and ask her to go to dinner. That’s what a proper man would do. In the same situation, it’s what your father would have done, and you know it,” she said.
As I ate my chicken, I considered her advice. She was right. So far, I’d troubled Sienna twice with my problems, and had never really taken time to thank her properly for everything she had done for me.
“I’ll take her some flowers,” I said with a nod of my head.
“And dinner. Take her to dinner, Stephen,” my mother said as she lowered another chicken bone below the table.
Bradley took the chicken bone from her hand, waddled toward the refr
igerator, and flopped down on the floor beside his bowl of food. As he gnawed on the bone and grew another few ounces fatter, and one step closer to choking to death, I shifted my eyes toward my mother.
“Fine,” I said. “And dinner.”
“You’re a good boy, Stephen. Now eat the rest of your salsa,” she said as she pointed her butter knife at my plate.
I had no intention of eating the remaining salsa, but I did think taking Sienna flowers and going to dinner was a good idea. My mother might have been difficult to bullshit, and impossible to win an argument with, but she always gave good advice. Her only concerns were, and had always been, what she believed to be in my best interest.
As I sat and ate the remaining portion of my Fourth of July meal and mentally prepared for the fireworks display we were certain to discharge in the driveway later, I knew one thing for sure.
I would always be her little boy.
SIENNA
July 9th, 2014
I had three books to review, was out of wine, and was about half as drunk as I needed to be. One of the books was an absolute disaster, written by someone who was so full of herself she wouldn’t even take my constructive criticism as advice. In my opinion, if an author of a book didn’t know the difference between two, to, too, four, fore, for, or their, they’re and there, they had no business publishing a book without the assistance of a professional editor.
And if the author was so pretentious she believed a book reviewer couldn’t have an effect on her ability to sell said book, she was dead wrong. My offer in the form of a private message to help her with a few things was met with a response that was beyond rude and completely uncalled for. I glared at her message decided a response wasn’t necessary, only an appropriate review.
Sienna,
I appreciate your opinion, but remember, I am THE AUTHOR. Putting my thoughs on paper is my job, and yours is to review what I gave wrotten. If you don’t like my choice of wrods, maybe you should write your own book and have me review it.
Thanks anyway.
Not.
Diamond
She couldn’t even write me an email without making mistakes. The sad thing was that the book had a reasonably interesting storyline, but the problems with syntax, grammar, and her weird prose prevented me from enjoying it, and from completing it. The opinions on not finishing a book and providing a review were all over the place, but I was of the opinion if I did my best to read a book, and because it was a disaster was incapable of finishing it, my follower should know my opinion.
I stared at the screen and tried to decide the best thing to do. After a moment, I began to type.
My Sister, My Lover, by Diamond Phelps was interesting enough for me to attempt to read it, but I was incapable of finishing it due to the constant errors and problems with her shifting from past tense to present tense and from first to third person - sometimes in the middle of sentences.
“I walked to the edge of the pier, wondering what he was going to do about our baby. Strangely, I wasn’t even sure it was his. He walks up beside me and held my hand, shows me he loves me without speaking, and pats me on the back softly. I snap out of my subconscious state and turned around, and he lifts my chin and says “it’ll be just fine” with his green eyes.
Words were not spoken, but they didn’t have to be spoke. He says all that he needs to say because we were loving each other, and we were always going to be lovers.
You never should walking away from a man who deep down inside loved you like he loves me and I knew this, but the fight within me building with each passing moment.
The fire inside of me was intense, and it burns eternally….”
I think the above excerpt says it all.
Now, to pre-squash the question I’m sure throngs of people will ask, “Sienna, is it fair that you one-starred a book you DNF’d? You didn’t actually finish it.” I will offer this answer in advance.
If I started the book, decided to go on vacation to Belize, and didn’t finish it for that reason, only to DNF and one star the book, yes. Yes, that would be wrong in my eyes.
Or, if I started the book, set it aside to go get a glass of wine, and tripped over the carpet in the living room where it meets the hard wood (which I am known to do on my 2nd or 3rd glass), and ended up in the hospital with a broken hip and a terrible case of ‘I’m stupids’, only to return and find my Kindle had been stolen? Yes, that would be bad of me to DNF and one star.
But, life is too short to read bad books or wear ugly shoes.
So, I CHOOSE to not finish this book based on the fact there are many others out there worthy taking up space in my head.
One star. DNF.
I read the review, decided using the excerpt from the book was probably best, and pressed the button to publish it. It was an extremely short review, but I believed it provided the prospective reader with enough information for them to develop their own opinion.
As I stared at my notes from the second book, the doorbell rang. Slightly startled, but becoming fractionally more used to the sound of the doorbell since I met Vince, I walked to the window and pulled the blinds to the side. I hoped it was him, but before I even glanced toward the porch I knew it wasn’t, because the sound of his motorcycle didn’t come first.
Much to my surprise, what appeared to be Vince’s silhouette stood waiting on my porch. Dressed in my plaid pink pajamas and a wife beater, I considered changing clothes, but quickly decided not to. So far, neither my P!NK sweats nor my jeans had much of an effect on him, and I hoped my most adorable pajamas would cause him to see me a little differently.
I ran to the living room, attempted to pace my breathing, and pulled the door open slowly. Vince stood before me with a smirk on his face and a vase filled with flowers in his hand.
“Good evening,” he said.
Feeling almost as if I was in shock, I stood and stared.
“I wanted to say thanks for everything,” he said as he handed me the flowers.
The only thing I could think of that would come close to describing how I felt would be to compare it to how and what I felt on Christmas morning with my father as a little girl.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
As my heart began to race and my palms broke out in a profuse sweat, I turned toward the inside of the house and prayed I didn’t start crying.
“Come in,” I said as I walked toward the kitchen.
I assumed the flowers would need water, but in looking at the vase, they didn’t.
“I didn’t hear your motorcycle, you surprised me,” I said as I placed the vase on the counter.
“I uhhm. I drove the truck. I couldn’t figure out a way to get those on the bike,” he said.
He was dressed differently than normal, and wasn’t wearing his cut. Dressed in a black tee shirt, jeans, and boots, it seemed that he was dressed up for the occasions.
“You’re not wearing your cut,” I said.
He shrugged his shoulders. “No cuts in cages. Surprised you haven’t read that in your little MC books.”
“Well, I haven’t yet,” I said as I shifted my eyes toward the flowers.
“I can’t stay, I got to go do a quick job, but I uhhm. I have a question,” he said.
“Okay,” I said as I shifted my eyes in his direction.
“You want to get lunch next Sunday? Maybe like meet up or something?” he asked.
Holy shit.
“Sure, sounds fun,” I said.
“How about let’s meet at that place on 21st and Rock, the new steak house?” he asked.
I did my best to contain my excitement. “Sure, what time?”
“Noon?” he asked.
He was big, covered in tattoos, and I knew from the night we got gas he had the ability to be violent, but for that moment, he seemed rather innocent.
“Sure.”
“Alright. Now remember, I don’t have a phone, so don’t be late,” he said.
“I won’t, I promise,” I said.
br /> He nodded his head, shifted his body toward the door and paused. “Alright. Well, I better get. Thanks again, for everything.”
“Any time,” I said, and then immediately wished I would have said something else.
He walked to the door, opened it, and glanced over his shoulder. His eyes fell to the floor and slowly worked their way back up to my face. “I like the pajamas. They’re cute.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I waved as he turned and walked toward his truck, just like I used to at the passing floats in the parades when I was a little girl, and then felt like a complete idiot for doing so. Hell, I didn’t know what a proper departure salute for a biker was, my books hadn’t addressed it. Maybe I should have pounded my fist to my heart and shot him the peace sign. After he got in his truck and drove away, I shut the door and ran to the kitchen.
I closed my eyes, buried my face in the flowers, and inhaled a long slow breath through my nose. As I lifted my head I opened my eyes and gazed down at the magnificent arrangement. They were perfect.
They were…
The unexpected result of the natural development of life.
VINCE
July 16th, 2014
The meal with Sienna was far more enjoyable than I ever expected it to be. As gorgeous as she was, and as womanly as she appeared to be, being in her presence reminded me more of hanging out with the fellas than eating a meal with Natalie. She was calm, she spoke about whatever was on her mind, and she didn’t seem to have reservations regarding any of the subjects I chose to discuss. I found myself intentionally trying to cause her to be uncomfortable, but nothing seemed to shake her. As our meal came to a close, I had to continually remind myself that being in a relationship was the last thing on earth I needed to do.
But I really enjoyed being with her.
“So, you don’t work?” I asked.
“Not right now, no. I did up until last year, but I got…” She paused, raised both hands in the air, and made cute little finger quotation marks before continuing. “Let go.”