Violet’s right, I’m not making choices. The decision I’m making now isn’t the one that’s going to help ease the sting of Violet throwing me out, but I’ll receive honest answers.
Weekday nights are dead at Shamrock’s. The customer peak is the after-work crowd of men who aren’t eager to head to Little League practices or the people who aren’t looking forward to heading to their place alone. Pretty sad when a dive that’s lit by neon signs and smells like sweat is the better alternative.
Gotta admit, alone sucks. Cold bed, cold covers, cold heart. Cold like that basement.
The music’s turned down low, but the bass still vibrates along the floor. One of the newer waitresses mops the section near the empty stage. It’s an hour or so before closing and Mom leans against the bar and works on a Sudoku puzzle. Her long black hair touches the surface. She’s in her favorite pair of faded jeans, a red T-shirt, and she’s lost to the world as she scribbles on the paper. She loves puzzles. The harder, the better.
I drop onto the stool across from her, and when she lifts her head, her eyes widen. I only drive her on Friday and Saturday nights and me here on a weekday spells disaster.
“No offense, but your facial expression is one I see often at this bar and usually the order from that person is something hard that will get them drunk fast.”
I don’t respond and Mom frowns. She pulls out a glass, fills it with ice, pours water into it and then slides it to me. “I thought you said the lineup went well.”
“It did.” Told her about it in texts.
“Then what’s wrong?”
I swipe my finger across the condensation forming on the glass. “You know I drink beer at the clubhouse, right?”
“But you didn’t go there. You came here.”
She’s right.
“Chevy.” Mom stays silent until I look up at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Violet asked me to choose.”
She inhales and her shoulders slump when she exhales. I’m aware of Mom’s opinion. She wants me to choose, too, but I’m here because Mom knows when to keep her thoughts to herself. Knows how to be a mom. She reaches across the bar and lays her hand over mine.
“What are you going to do?” she asks.
My lips turn down, my eyes burn and I shake my head to push it all away. “I don’t know.”
No sense telling her Violet threw me out. I also don’t want to scare Mom by explaining that one of the reasons I didn’t give Violet my word to stay silent is because the Riot are watching Violet. My fingers curl into a fist and Mom lifts her hand from mine.
“Why can’t Violet see the club is there to help, not hurt?” I say. “They want to protect her. They want to keep her safe and she keeps pushing them away.”
“You mean she keeps pushing you away.”
“Same thing.”
“Doesn’t have to be. From my mountain looking down, Violet has a point. You were kidnapped because of your association with the Terror.”
I go to argue and Mom holds up her hand. “Chevy, do you love her?”
Without a doubt. “Yes.”
“Do you think she’s a capable, smart girl?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you trust Violet to make decisions for herself? Let’s put the Terror aside for a moment. If she feels her life is better without the Terror, why can’t you respect that? Why are you trying to force something on her she feels is bad for her life? For months all I’ve heard about is how she’s making you choose, but do you not realize you’re trying to shove your choices down her throat?”
“I haven’t chosen.”
Mom’s eyes become full of sadness. “Yes, you have, and by telling her you haven’t, you’re leading her on. By telling her she’s only safe with the Terror, you’re telling her she’s incapable of taking care of herself without some man to watch over her. The words out of your mouth aren’t the only things she hears.”
The ice in the glass shifts as it melts. Mom never minces words and it’s why I’m here.