#likeaporcupine
CARMEN BENDS DOWN to inspect a pile of zucchini, sniffing it when she’s just a couple inches above it.
“Does it smell right for your recipe?” I arch my brows with amusement.
“Maybe.” She frowns at the stack of vegetables, considering.
We’re on our weekly Saturday morning visit to the local farmers market, where Carmen creates recipes in her head upon seeing the organic vegetables, homemade pasta, and exotic seasonings on display.
“With the right meat . . .” Carmen mumbles, cupping her chin as she considers.
Jack gives me a frantic look as strawberry ice cream trails down the sides of his giant waffle cone, melting despite his efforts to eat it fast.
“Emergency lick!” he cries, passing me the cone.
I grab it, ignoring the stickiness as I wrap my hand around it and lick away the meltiest parts.
“Thanks,” he says as I pass it back.
“I feel like I should be the one thanking you.” I rub my hand on my jeans in an effort to wipe away some of the stickiness, to no avail. “That’s really good ice cream.”
Carmen decides to pass on the zucchini, and we move on to the next booth.
“So, if you were trying to describe me, what would you say?” I ask her.
She gives me a confused glance. “To describe you?”
I nod.
“Smart, beautiful, compassionate—”
I cut her off. “Not like that. But thanks, those are all very nice things to say. I guess what I mean is, who do you think I am, deep down?”
She considers. “I think that, deep down, you aren’t as cynical as you let on. You’re deeply loyal. You value yourself based on professional accomplishments.”
“Really?”
“Mostly. Sometimes I think you forget there’s a woman inside you who gets scared and hopeful and moody just like the rest of us. You try to be ‘on’ all the time and never show any weakness.”
I knit my brows together and think about her words. My instinct is to rebut them, but I force myself not to. Carmen knows me better than anyone. Maybe there’s some truth to what she’s saying.
“Why do you ask?” Carmen turns to me, a green pepper in hand.
“Hmm? Oh, just . . . wondering, I suppose.”
Carmen squeezes the pepper in several places, then gives it a quizzical look.
“Oh my God, just buy the damn thing.” I shake my head. “You fondled it already, might as well make an honest pepper out of it.”
She laughs as I pass a couple bucks to the guy running the stand. “Squeezing produce is as close as I get to—” she glances at Jack “—you know . . . these days.”
“Tell me about it.” I sigh. “I didn’t think I cared anymore.”
Carmen gives me a side-eye as we walk to the next booth. She doesn’t even notice the college-age guy checking her out as he walks past us. “But . . . ? I know there’s more to that statement.”
I shrug. “But lately, I guess I’ve realized I do care some.”
“What made you realize that?”
“What are you, my therapist?”
“Obviously. I have been for almost a decade now. And you’re mine.”
I smile. “I guess just all the men who have been in and out of the office lately.”
“As opposed to every other day, when the office is already full of hot men? There has to be one in particular, Sienna. Don’t make me drag it out of you.”
“There’s this guy I’m emailing with, but it’s nothing.”
“You wouldn’t have mentioned it if it was nothing,” Carmen says under her breath.
I ignore her and continue. “Remember me telling you about Ben Durant, the one who sent me flowers?”
“Tall, dark, handsome, and rich?”
“Pretty much.”
“So go out with him.”
I groan. Jack passes me the cone for another emergency lick, and I snag a bite of the waffle cone while I’m at it, then hand it back to him.
“You know how I feel about dating,” I remind Carmen.
“But I also know you aren’t as cynical as you let on, remember?”
“You really think I should go out with him?”
“I really do.” Carmen stops to check out a display of homemade pastas infused with vegetables. “Or the email guy. Or—” she grins and arches her brows “—both.”
“The email guy won’t tell me who he is.”
That stops Carmen cold. “What the hell? Is he a creep?”
I shrug. “Could be. I don’t really know.”
“Well, how does he seem?”
I furrow my brow as I think about that. “At first . . . like a hole that starts with the letter ‘A.’” We’ve come up with creative ways to swear around Jack. “And then . . . intriguing, I guess. Mysterious.”
“Maybe he’s mysterious because he’s married. Or in prison. Or seventy years old. Or . . .” Carmen gives me a serious look. “All of the above.”
I half laugh and half sigh. “Maybe. He doesn’t seem that way, though.”
“Tell him you need to know who he is. He could be a pimply kid emailing you from the bedroom of his parents’ house, Sienna.”
I cringe and then instinctively look at Jack to make sure he’s okay. He is, other than the strawberry ice cream smeared all over his nose and chin.
While Carmen buys some pasta, I bend down and wipe off Jack’s face with a napkin.
“How was the ice cream, buddy?”
“Good.”
“What else do you want to do today?”
“Go to the park?”
I nod. “Let’s do it.”
“And can we get pizza from that one place with the white and orange cheese?”
“Absolutely.”
Carmen frowns at us as she walks over. “Pizza? I was going to make carbonara tonight.”
“Make it tomorrow night,” I suggest. “Jack and I are thinking pizza and a movie tonight. He wants to watch a princess movie.”
“Sienna! No, I don’t!” Jack objects dramatically and smacks his forehead.
“Oh, I thought you loved princesses.”
“No.” He shakes his head and gives his mom a can you believe this look.
“What else could we watch?” I feign bewilderment.
“The Force Awakens!”
“Doesn’t it have a princess? I knew you loved princesses.”
Jack’s eyes widen as he gives me a serious look. “No, she’s a general.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm. Okay, I still like it.”
On our walk home, I’m still thinking about the question posed by my would-be alpha adviser. We put away our purchases and then walk to the park a couple blocks over from my apartment. Jack wears himself out, and when we’re back home and he and Carmen fall asleep on the couch, I tiptoe up to my bedroom and call Coop.
“Sienna? Everything okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s good. How are you?”
He gives me a noncommittal grunt. “Been working lots of overtime. The money’s great, but I’m beat.”
“Are you working now?”
“Nah, I finally got a day off. I don’t feel like doing anything, though. What’s up with you, little sister?”
I sigh heavily and lie down on my bed. “Who do you think I am, Coop?”
“Uh . . . my sister? Is this a trick question?”
“Deep down inside. What moves me? What am I passionate about?”
Another disinterested grunt. “Chick flicks? Apple fritters?”
“Those are things I like, but not who I am. You’ve known me my whole life. Who am I?”
“How the hell should I know?”
I groan with frustration. “You’re not helpful.”
“I never said I was.” I can hear his dismissal of this topic in his tone. “Oh, hey, I need a favor.”
“What?”
“There’s a firefighter’s charity ball thing in a few weeks, and I need you to come with me.”
I laugh. “Why? It’s not like you can’t find a real date.”
“Yeah, I can, I just don’t want to. Every woman I go out with lately wants to know where I see things heading with us before we get to fucking dessert.”
“To your bedroom, right?”
“Well, yeah,” he says sheepishly, “but I can’t admit that. Why can’t women just have some fun on the first date and see where it leads?”
My “hmm” is skeptical. “Why can’t men just be honest about what they really want?”
After a couple seconds of silence, Coop sighs and says, “Anyway, will you come to the thing?”
“Sure. Maybe I’ll find some hot firefighters to hook up with.”
“Shut up.”
I keep going, because I love aggravating Coop. “You’ll introduce me to the hot ones, right? A girl has needs, you know.”
“Stop, Sienna. You’re my sister. I don’t want to hear about that shit. And I’ll make sure all the guys know you’re off-limits, so don’t even try it.”
“Text me the date so I can add it to my schedule. And if you want us to be matchy-matchy, I’ll be wearing a white dress that’s see-through on the top. It leaves nothing to the imagination.”
My brother groans with disgust. “Don’t you dare.”
“I don’t even own a dress like that, Coop. Don’t worry, I’ll be wearing my habit.”
“That’s more like it.”
“All right, get back to doing nothing.”
“Yep. Love you, sis.”
“Love you too.”
We hang up, and I stare at the ceiling for a couple minutes before reaching over to my bedside table to grab my laptop. I sit up, open the computer, and log on to my work email.
From: [email protected]
Re: who I am
Dear RoughRider,
Are you having a good weekend? Mine is good so far.
I’ve been thinking about what you asked me. I think I’ll need to answer this question slowly. So here’s the beginning of my answer.
I love Oreo cookies (dunked in milk until they’re FALLING APART) and cheesy romantic comedies. I’m terrible at all sports. I get grossed out when anyone else uses my toilet.
I’m practical. My lingerie drawer is filled with comfortable, supportive nude-colored bras and butt-covering nude-colored briefs. And while I love shoes and handbags as much as the next woman, I shop at upscale consignment stores for most of my wardrobe.
I’m like a porcupine. The quills are my outer persona—tough and strong and ready for battle. Not only am I comfortable in a conference room with nothing but back-slapping men, I’m in my element there. Kicking ass and taking names in a corporate setting is my jam. But what many people don’t know is that porcupines’ most vulnerable part is their soft underbelly. My soft underbelly is the way I feel about the people I love. There’s someone in particular—a little boy—whom I love with my whole heart and soul. But that love comes with a sense of helplessness and hurt that I sometimes can’t process, because he’s sick. I cry for him at night, when I’m alone. I’d give up everything to help him if I could.
I’m making myself sound better than I am. The truth is, I’m not sure I’d be a good mom if I had my own kids. I’m pretty focused on myself. And when I have PMS . . . well, watch out world.
Your turn. Who are you? And if RoughRider isn’t sexual, what’s it about?
Sienna