Read Online Nice Girls Don't Ride by Roni Loren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roni Loren
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perfectly nice couch to sleep on. I’m glad neither of us ended up there.
The pinkish-blue glow peeking through the front windows tells me it’s almost dawn. My birthday adventure will be over soon. And so will the magic of tonight. But I’m okay with that. I have no regrets.
Yesterday, I woke up thinking I had everything in place. Like that board game
Life
. My little car was on the set path, my peg person happily riding along in the passenger side to a predetermined destination. Today, all the game pieces have been thrown into the box, shaken, and then dumped out completely. I should probably be freaking out. Instead, I feel . . . relieved.
There’s something oddly freeing about not having a plan.
I let my fingers trail over the back of the couch as I make my way to the wall of bookshelves on the far side of the living room. One seems to be packed with a hodgepodge of novels, encyclopedias, and knickknacks. But the other is impeccably neat and organized. I scan the spines. Cookbooks. Of course.
There are so many of them—brightly colored new ones, faded older ones with worn spines, fat ones, skinny ones. I touch one labeled
From Canapés to Casseroles
. It looks more well-loved than the others. I imagine it having splatters on its pages and notes in the margins, marking the evidence that the recipe was tried.
“That one was my mom’s favorite.”
I jump, startled, and turn around. Monroe is leaning against the doorway to the living room, wearing only a pair of pajama pants, his hair sticking out three different ways. He smiles and nods at the shelf of books. “You’ve discovered my dirty addiction.”
I grin. “The truth is out.”
“I have three more boxes in my closet.
Hoarders
will be here any minute to interview me for the show.”
I look back at the shelf. “Have you cooked from all of these?”
“Nah, not all of them. Half of those were my mom’s. She suffered from the same addiction.”
“She’s recovered, I guess, if she gave them to you?”
He walks over and wraps his arms around me from behind. He sets his chin on my shoulder. “No, she died when I was nine. My dad held on to her stuff for me and my brother.”
My chest constricts. “I’m so sorry.”
I can feel him shrug against me. “It sucked. But I’ve made peace with it. She was a great mom. I was lucky to get nine years with her.”
The comment makes me sad all over again. “So was she a chef?”
“She loved to cook, but no, not a chef. She got pregnant with my brother too young and kind of got locked into the mom thing. So, she taught herself the old-fashioned way by cooking every recipe she could get her hands on. The month she worked her way through that casserole cookbook scared me off of cream of mushroom soup for life.”
I laugh, then put my fingers to my mouth. It seems wrong to laugh while we’re talking about his dead mother. But when I turn in his arms to apologize, he’s got a warm smile on his face.
“She always talked about one day opening a restaurant and how me and my brother could work in it with her. She wanted to name it the Bluebird Cafe because bluebirds are the symbol of happiness, and the kitchen was where she was happiest. But she got sick before our family ever had the kind of money to do something like that.”
I look down and put my hand over the bird on his chest. “So this is for her?”
“Yeah. And a reminder for me that dreams don’t wait for us. You have to chase them. Take your chances at happiness when you have them or you may not get more.”
I wrap my arms around him and lay my head against his chest, this melancholy feeling sweeping over me. “Your mom would approve of your summer road trip.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Well, all except the motorcycle part. If she was still around, she’d kick my ass if she knew I rode one of those ‘death traps’ and would be ticked that my brother is so obsessed with them, he opened his own shop.”
“You mom sounds very
The pinkish-blue glow peeking through the front windows tells me it’s almost dawn. My birthday adventure will be over soon. And so will the magic of tonight. But I’m okay with that. I have no regrets.
Yesterday, I woke up thinking I had everything in place. Like that board game
Life
. My little car was on the set path, my peg person happily riding along in the passenger side to a predetermined destination. Today, all the game pieces have been thrown into the box, shaken, and then dumped out completely. I should probably be freaking out. Instead, I feel . . . relieved.
There’s something oddly freeing about not having a plan.
I let my fingers trail over the back of the couch as I make my way to the wall of bookshelves on the far side of the living room. One seems to be packed with a hodgepodge of novels, encyclopedias, and knickknacks. But the other is impeccably neat and organized. I scan the spines. Cookbooks. Of course.
There are so many of them—brightly colored new ones, faded older ones with worn spines, fat ones, skinny ones. I touch one labeled
From Canapés to Casseroles
. It looks more well-loved than the others. I imagine it having splatters on its pages and notes in the margins, marking the evidence that the recipe was tried.
“That one was my mom’s favorite.”
I jump, startled, and turn around. Monroe is leaning against the doorway to the living room, wearing only a pair of pajama pants, his hair sticking out three different ways. He smiles and nods at the shelf of books. “You’ve discovered my dirty addiction.”
I grin. “The truth is out.”
“I have three more boxes in my closet.
Hoarders
will be here any minute to interview me for the show.”
I look back at the shelf. “Have you cooked from all of these?”
“Nah, not all of them. Half of those were my mom’s. She suffered from the same addiction.”
“She’s recovered, I guess, if she gave them to you?”
He walks over and wraps his arms around me from behind. He sets his chin on my shoulder. “No, she died when I was nine. My dad held on to her stuff for me and my brother.”
My chest constricts. “I’m so sorry.”
I can feel him shrug against me. “It sucked. But I’ve made peace with it. She was a great mom. I was lucky to get nine years with her.”
The comment makes me sad all over again. “So was she a chef?”
“She loved to cook, but no, not a chef. She got pregnant with my brother too young and kind of got locked into the mom thing. So, she taught herself the old-fashioned way by cooking every recipe she could get her hands on. The month she worked her way through that casserole cookbook scared me off of cream of mushroom soup for life.”
I laugh, then put my fingers to my mouth. It seems wrong to laugh while we’re talking about his dead mother. But when I turn in his arms to apologize, he’s got a warm smile on his face.
“She always talked about one day opening a restaurant and how me and my brother could work in it with her. She wanted to name it the Bluebird Cafe because bluebirds are the symbol of happiness, and the kitchen was where she was happiest. But she got sick before our family ever had the kind of money to do something like that.”
I look down and put my hand over the bird on his chest. “So this is for her?”
“Yeah. And a reminder for me that dreams don’t wait for us. You have to chase them. Take your chances at happiness when you have them or you may not get more.”
I wrap my arms around him and lay my head against his chest, this melancholy feeling sweeping over me. “Your mom would approve of your summer road trip.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Well, all except the motorcycle part. If she was still around, she’d kick my ass if she knew I rode one of those ‘death traps’ and would be ticked that my brother is so obsessed with them, he opened his own shop.”
“You mom sounds very
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