Chapter Three
IN THE weeks before Doug’s wedding, I’d been slowly sharing with J my concerns about our relationship. Then before the wedding, I’d let him in on my intention to relocate to Chicago. But the fact that I’d always been so available to J during those L.A. days left him completely incapable of grasping that I’d actually do it. I thought my leaving California rather than move to San Francisco with him months earlier would have given him more clarity in this regard, but he’d just considered it a temporary hiccup. As far as J was concerned, it was only a matter of time before I’d be back. And I couldn’t blame him. There was a time when I would have been. In the days following my brother’s wedding, he’d grown increasingly alarmed that I was, in fact, beginning to step away from him.
He absolutely couldn’t believe it.
Meanwhile, I’d been busy spending every single evening with Marlboro Man, my new hot cowboy romance, getting more and more swept off my pedicured feet with each passing day. I’d hardly thought of J once that whole week. Naive on my part, but that’s what Marlboro Man did to me: took away my ability to reason.
“I’m coming there tomorrow,” J continued, an uncomfortable edge to his voice.
Oh no. What?
“You’re coming here tomorrow?” I asked him. “Why?” My voice was cold. I didn’t like the way I sounded.
“What do you mean, ‘Why?’” he asked. “I need to talk to you, Ree.”
“Well, we’re talking now…,” I replied. “Let’s just talk now.” (And hurry, please, because Marlboro Man might call in a sec.)
“It might take a while,” he said.
I looked at my watch. “I thought we’d kind of figured everything out,” I said. “I thought you understood the state of things.”
“The ‘state of things’?” J bit back. “What the hell are you talking about?” This conversation was headed south, fast.
“I don’t know what else there is to talk about,” I replied. “I told you…I just think we need to move on.”
“Well, I don’t buy that,” he shot back. “And I’m coming so we can talk about it.”
“Wait a second,” I said. “Don’t I get a vote here?”
“No, actually you don’t,” he continued. “I don’t think you really know what you’re doing.”
I was sleepy, I was giddy, and I was high on the scent of Marlboro Man’s cologne, and I wasn’t going to let J buzz-kill me out of it. “J,” I said, mustering up every ounce of directness I could find, “don’t come. There’d be no reason for you to come.” I asked him to call me the next day if he wanted, and we said good-bye.
I took a deep breath, feeling wistful and wishing there was some way that relationships, if they had to end, could always end mutually and amicably—not with at least one of the parties feeling hurt and rejected. Then I fell asleep and dreamed the dreams I’d wanted to dream, about Marlboro Man and his boots and his lips and his strong, impossibly masculine embrace. And when my phone rang at seven the next morning, I was never more glad to hear Marlboro Man’s voice on the other end. We made plans for that evening, and I gave nary a thought to the fact that California J had just announced the day before that he would be flying to Oklahoma to see me. Somehow, I thought my saying “don’t come” would be sufficient. Now I realize just how formidable someone in the throes of a new love is, whether they’re a cheating spouse or a defiant teenager or a flighty city girl in the arms of a cowboy; at that point, I was simply so drunk on the excitement Marlboro Man had brought me, nothing J said—not even “I’m coming tomorrow”—had truly registered.
DENIAL. IT’S a powerful animal.
The only thing on my mind the next morning was my date that night with Marlboro Man. It had become my new hobby, my new vocation, my interest in life. Marlboro Man had invited me to his ranch; he said he’d cook dinner this time. I didn’t much care what the plans were; I just wanted to see him again. Spend time in his presence. Get to know more about him, to kiss him good night for an hour. Or two. That was the only thing on my mind when I pulled out of my parents’ driveway that morning to run a few errands.
When my car suddenly shook from a series of unsettling bumps, I knew something dire had happened. To my horror, when I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw that I’d run over Puggy Sue. Puggy Sue, my fat, prognathic canine who’d settled into my arms the day I’d returned from California and had become, in effect, my child during my time at home, was now lying on my parents’ street, squealing, writhing, and unable to move her hind legs.
Hearing Puggy’s yelps from inside the house, my mom darted outside, scooped her up, and immediately rushed her to the vet’s office. Within thirty minutes, she called to tell me the news to which I’d already started resigning myself: Puggy Sue, my little package of fawn-colored love, was dead.
I spent the next several hours in a fetal position, reeling over the sudden death of Puggy. My brother Mike came over as soon as he heard the news and consoled me for over an hour, affectionately stroking my hair and saying, “It’s ok-k-k-kay…you c-c-c-can get another pug,” which only made me cry harder.
But when my phone rang around midafternoon, I shot out of bed, ordering Mike not to say a word. Then I took a deep breath, shook off my tears, and said, cheerfully, “Hello?”
It was Marlboro Man, calling to remind me of the complicated directions to his house on the ranch and asking what time I’d be arriving later, as he was growing more impatient by the minute—something, I reflected, that J had never said to me in all the years we’d been together. My stomach fell to the floor and my throat felt tight as I tried to talk to my new man as if nothing was wrong. When I hung up, Mike said, “Wh-wh-wh-who was dat?” I sniffed, wiped my nose, and told him it was a guy.
“Who?” Mike said.
“Some cowboy,” I said. “I’m going to his house tonight.”
“Ooooooh, c-c-c-can I come?” He had a devilish grin on his face.
I told him no, and scram, because I’m getting in the shower. Mike left in a huff.
As I blow-dried my hair in preparation for my date that night, I tried to take my mind off Puggy Sue by planning my wardrobe for the evening: Anne Klein jeans, charcoal gray ribbed turtleneck, and my signature spiky black boots. Perfect for a night at a cowboy’s house on the ranch. Before putting on my makeup, I scurried to the kitchen and removed two of the spoons I kept in the freezer at all times. I laid them on my eyes to reduce the swelling—a trick I’d learned from a Brooke Shields book in the mid-1980s. I didn’t want to look like someone who’d just spent the day sobbing over a dead family pet.
I began the hour-long drive to his ranch. Marlboro Man had picked me up and driven me home the night before, but I didn’t have the heart to ask that of him again, and besides, I loved the drive. The slow transition from residential streets to unpaved county roads both calmed me down and excited me, probably because the man I was growing more crazy about every day was at the end of that unpaved county road. I wasn’t sure how long I—or my wimpy tires—could keep this up.
My Toyota had just crossed the line from my county to his when the jarring ring of my analog car phone sounded. It must be Marlboro Man, I figured, checking on my whereabouts.
“Hello?” I picked up, dripping with romantic expectation.
“Hi,” said the voice. It was J.
“Oh, hi,” I said. I felt my chest fall in disappointment.
“I’m at the airport,” he said.
Deep breath. Look at the prairie. Could this day get any worse? Exhale. “You’re at the airport?” I asked.
“I told you I was coming,” he said.
“J, no…seriously…,” I pleaded. This might just do me in. “I told you I didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“And I told you I was coming anyway,” he countered.
I answered as clearly and plainly as I could. “Don’t get on the plane, J. Don’t come. I mean…do you understand what I’m saying? I’m asking you not to come.”
“I’m at your airport,” he said. “I’m already here!”
I pulled over on the shoulder of the two-lane highway and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger, squinting my eyes and trying with all my might to rewind to the part where I picked up my phone so I could convince myself I hadn’t. “You’re here?” I asked. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not kidding,” J said. “I’m here. I need to see you.”
I sat there on the quiet shoulder, stunned and deflated at the same time. This wasn’t what I’d planned for that evening.
“J…” I paused and thought. “I don’t know what to say. I mean, I asked you not to come. I told you it was not a good idea for you to come.” I thought about Puggy Sue. Her soft, velvety ears.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m…on my way to see a friend,” I replied. Please don’t ask me any details.
“Well, I think you need to change your plans, don’t you?” he asked.
It was a valid question. And sitting there on the side of the highway, watching the sun set in front of me, I had no idea what I should do. On the one hand, I’d been very clear, as clear as I could have been, with J the day before. Don’t come; I didn’t think I’d left any ambiguity. On the other hand, J—a really decent guy under less intense circumstances—had been important to me for a long time and had, after all, traveled 1,800 miles to talk to me in person. Still, I wondered what good could possibly come from my going to see him. We could hardly get through a simple phone conversation without hitting total gridlock; how much better could that possibly be in person, particularly since I was 100 percent sure the relationship, from my perspective, was over? Plus, I’d run over Puggy Sue that day; I just didn’t have much emotional fortitude left.
And besides…Marlboro Man was waiting for me.
With that, I pulled off the shoulder of the highway and continued driving west toward the ranch. “J, I’m not coming,” I said. The pause on the other end of the line seemed endless. And the subsequent click from J hanging up on me was so quiet, it was almost deafening.