Chapter Seven
WAIT A minute. What had I just decided? What did all of this mean? I looked across the room at my boxes of clothes, my bags of belongings, stacked neatly by my bedroom door. They’d been packed with purpose and resolve. It was going to be seamless, my new start as an Independent Woman of the Midwest. And now, in the blink of an eye, it was Gone with the Wind.
What had I done? I loved that apartment. I’d spent so much time picturing myself there—where I’d put my bed, where I’d hang my collection of black-and-white prints of Mikhail Baryshnikov. Months from now, when I’d eventually come to my senses and move to Chicago as originally planned, there’s no way I’ll find another apartment like this one.
In an internal panic, I picked up the phone and hurriedly pushed redial. I had to catch Rhonda the Realtor, had to tell her wait, hold off, don’t let it go, I’m not sure, hang on, give me another day…or two…or three. But when the numbers finished dialing, I heard no ringing; instead, in a perfect moment of irony, coincidence, and serendipity, I heard Marlboro Man’s voice on the other end.
“Hello?” he asked.
“Oh,” I replied. “Hello?”
“Hey, you,” he replied.
So much for calling Rhonda the Realtor. Three seconds into the phone call, Marlboro Man’s voice had already taken hold. His voice. It weakened my knees, destroyed my focus, ruined my resolve. When I heard his voice, I could think of nothing but wanting to see him again, to be in his presence, to drink him in, to melt like butter in his impossibly strong arms. When I heard his voice, Chicago became nothing but a distant memory.
“What’re you up to?” he continued. I could hear cattle in the background.
“Oh, just getting a few things done,” I said. “Just tying up a few loose ends.”
“You’re not moving to Chicago today, are you?” he said with a chuckle. He was only halfway joking.
I laughed, rolling over in my bed and fiddling with the eyelet ruffle on my comforter. “Nope, not today,” I answered. “What are you doing?”
“Coming to pick you up in a little bit,” he said. I loved it when he took charge. It made my heart skip a beat, made me feel flushed and excited and thrilled. After four years with J, I was sick and tired of the surfer mentality. Laid-back, I’d discovered, was no longer something I wanted in a man. And when it came to his affection for me, Marlboro Man was anything but that. “I’ll be there at five.” Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir. I’ll be ready. With bells on.
I started getting ready at three. I showered, shaved, powdered, perfumed, brushed, curled, and primped for two whole hours—throwing on a light pink shirt and my favorite jeans—all in an effort to appear as if I’d simply thrown myself together at the last minute.
It worked. “Man,” Marlboro Man said when I opened the door. “You look great.” I couldn’t focus very long on his compliment, though—I was way too distracted by the way he looked. God, he was gorgeous. At a time of year when most people are still milky white, his long days of working cattle had afforded him a beautiful, golden, late-spring tan. And his typical denim button-down shirts had been replaced by a more fitted dark gray polo, the kind of shirt that perfectly emphasizes biceps born not from working out in a gym, but from tough, gritty, hands-on labor. And his prematurely gray hair, very short, was just the icing on the cake. I could eat this man with a spoon.
“You do, too,” I replied, trying to will away my spiking hormones. He opened the door to his white diesel pickup, and I climbed right in. I didn’t even ask him where we were going; I didn’t even care. But when we turned west on the highway and headed out of town, I knew exactly where he was taking me: to his ranch…to his turf…to his home on the range. Though I didn’t expect or require a ride from him, I secretly loved that he drove over an hour to fetch me. It was a throwback to a different time, a burst of chivalry and courtship in this very modern world. As we drove we talked and talked—about our friends, about our families, about movies and books and horses and cattle.
We talked about everything but Chicago.
I wanted so badly to tell him, but I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him that I’d impulsively decided—within a period of five minutes earlier that morning—that I couldn’t leave him. That I’d indefinitely put on hold—if not nixed altogether—my plans to move away. That I had a new plan now, and that was to be with him. But for some reason, the words just wouldn’t come.
Instead of continuing on the highway to the gravel road that led to his house, Marlboro Man took an alternate route. “I’ve got to turn some cattle out of the horse trap,” he said. I didn’t even know what that meant, but I was game. He drove through a series of twisted, confusing roads—roads I could never imagine understanding or negotiating myself—and stopped at a pasture full of black cattle. Swinging open a couple of gates, he made a few gestures with his arms—and in no time at all, the cattle had gone where they were supposed to go. This man had a way of getting creatures of all kinds—whether it be bovine animals or redheaded women in their midtwenties—to bend to his influence.
We took the long way back toward his house and drove past the northernmost point of the ranch just as the sun was beginning to set. “That’s so pretty,” I exclaimed as I beheld the beauty of the sky.
Marlboro Man slowed to a stop and put his pickup in park. “It is, isn’t it?” he replied, looking over the land on which he’d grown up. He’d lived there since he was four days old, had worked there as a child, had learned how to be a rancher from his dad and grandfather and great-grandfather. He’d learned how to build fences and handle animals and extinguish prairie fires and raise cattle of all colors, shapes, and sizes. He’d helped bury his older brother in the family cemetery near his house, and he’d learned to pick up and go on in the face of unspeakable tragedy and sadness. This ranch was a part of him. His love for it was tangible.
We got out of the pickup and sat on the back, holding hands and watching every second of the magenta sunset as it slowly dissipated into the blackness underneath. The night was warm and perfectly still—so still we could hear each other breathing. And well after the sun finally dipped below the horizon and the sky grew dark, we stayed on the back of the pickup, hugging and kissing as if we hadn’t seen each other in ages. The passion I felt was immeasurable.
“I have something to tell you,” I said as the butterflies in my gut kicked into overdrive.
MARLBORO MAN paused, his eyes piercing through to my marrow. We’d started out watching the sunset over the ranch, sitting on the tailgate of his pickup, legs dangling playfully over the edge. By the time the sun had gone down, we were lying down, legs overlapping, as the sky turned blacker and blacker. And making out wildly. Making out, oh, so very wildly.
I didn’t want to wait for him to bring it up again—the dreaded subject of Chicago. I’d avoided it like the plague for the past several days, not wanting to face the reality of my impending move, of walking away from my new love so soon after we’d found each other. But now the subject wasn’t so scary; it was safe. I’d made the decision, at least for now, to stay—I just had to tell Marlboro Man. And finally, in between kisses, the words bubbled suddenly and boldly to the surface; I could no longer contain them. But before I had a chance to say them, Marlboro Man opened his mouth and began to speak.
“Oh no,” he said, a pained expression on his face. “Don’t tell me—you’re leaving tomorrow.” He ran his fingers through my hair and touched his forehead to mine.
I smiled, giggling inside at the secret I was seconds away from spilling. A herd of cows mooed in the distance. Serenading us.
“Um…no,” I said, finding it hard to believe what I was about to tell him. “I’m not…I’m…I’m not going.”
He paused, then pulled his face away from mine, allowing just enough distance between us for him to pull focus. “What?” he asked, his strong fingers still grasping my hair. A tentative smile appeared on his face.
I breathed in a deep dose of night air, trying to calm my schoolgirl nervousness. “I, umm…” I began. “I decided to stick around here a little while.” There. I’d said it. This was all officially real.
Without a moment of hesitation, Marlboro Man wrapped his ample arms around my waist. Then, in what seemed to be less than a second, he hoisted me from my horizontal position on the bed of his pickup until we were both standing in front of each other. Scooping me off my feet, he raised me up to his height so his icy blue eyes were level with mine.
“Wait…are you serious?” he asked, taking my face in his hands. Squaring it in front of his. Looking me in the eye. “You’re not going?”
“Nope,” I answered.
“Whoa,” he said, smiling and moving in for a long, impassioned kiss on the back of his Ford F250. “I can’t believe it,” he continued, squeezing me tightly.
Our knees buckled under the heat, and before I knew it we were back where we’d been before, rolling around and kissing manically in the bed of his diesel pickup. Occasionally my arm would hit a crowbar and my head would slam against a spare tire or a cattle prod or a jack; I didn’t care, of course. I’d said what I wanted to say that night. Everything else—even minor head injuries—was a piece of cake.
We stayed there a long, long time, the balmy night air giving us no good reason to leave. Under the innumerable stars, amidst all the embraces and kisses and sounds from the surrounding livestock, I suddenly felt more at peace in my decision than I had since my phone call with Rhonda the Realtor that morning. I felt at home, comfortable, nestled in, wonderful. My life had changed that day, changed in a way I never, ever, could have predicted. My big-city plans—plans many months in the making—had all at once been smashed to smithereens by a six-foot cowboy with manure on his boots. A cowboy I’d known, essentially, for less than three weeks. It was the craziest thing I’d ever done, deciding to take an impulsive walk down this new and unexpected path. And while I secretly wondered how long it would take for me to regret my decision, I rested easily, at least for that night, in the knowledge that I’d had the courage to step out on such an enormous limb.
It was late. Time to go. “Want me to drive you home now?” Marlboro Man asked, lacing our fingers together, kissing the back of my hand. “Or, do you….” He paused, considering his words. “Do you want to come stay at my place?”
I DIDN’T ANSWER right away; I was too busy savoring the moment. The delicious night air, the music of mama cows in a distant pasture, the trillions of stars overhead, the feeling of his fingers entwined in mine. The night couldn’t have gone any more perfectly. I’m not sure anything, even going home with him, could possibly make it any better.
I started to open my mouth, but Marlboro Man beat me to it. Standing up and lifting me off the tailgate of his pickup, he carried me, Rhett Butler–style, toward the passenger door. Setting me down and opening my door, he said, “On second thought…I think I’d better take you home.” I smiled, convinced he must have read my mind.
Whether he had or not, the fact was that instantly and noticeably the whole vibe between us had changed. Before I’d dumped my Chicago apartment and told him my plans to stay, the passion between us had sometimes felt urgent, rushed, almost as if some imaginary force was compelling us to get it all out right here, right now, because before too long we wouldn’t have the chance. There’d been a quiet desperation in our romance up until that point, feelings of excitement and lust mixed with an uncomfortable hint of doom and dread. But now that my move had all but been eliminated from the equation, the doom and dread had been replaced with a beautiful sense of comfort. In the blink of an eye, Marlboro Man and I, while madly and insanely in love, were no longer in any hurry.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding my head. “I agree.”
Man, did I ever have a way with words.
He drove me home, through all the windy roads of his ranch and down the two-lane highway that eventually led to my parents’ house on the golf course. And when he walked me to the door, I marveled at how different it felt. Every time I’d stood with Marlboro Man on those same front porch steps, I’d felt the pull of my boxes beckoning me to come inside, to finish packing, to get ready to leave. Packing after our dates had become a regular activity, a ritual, an effort, on my part, to keep my plans moving along despite my ever-growing affection for this new and unexpected man in my life. And now, this night, standing here in his arms, the only thing left to do was unpack them. Or leave them there; I didn’t care. I wasn’t going anywhere. At least not for now.
“I didn’t expect this,” he said, his arms around my waist.
“I didn’t expect it either,” I said, laughing.
He moved in for one final kiss, the perfect ending for such a night. “You made my day,” he whispered, before walking to his pickup and driving away.
As I turned to walk into the house and up the stairs to my bedroom, every nerve ending in my body tingled. If this wasn’t love, I reflected, then love should just be discontinued entirely. As I walked into my room, I glanced at my boxes with a tickly mixture of melancholy and glee, then flopped onto my comfy bed, kicking off my shoes, and sighing dreamily.
The loud ring of my phone jarred me awake an hour later. Still exhausted from the night before, I’d fallen asleep in my clothes. “Hello?” I said, still almost entirely asleep. Disoriented, confused, drunk on lust and country air.
“Hey…it’s me,” the person on the line said. The voice was quiet. Grave. It was J.
I wasn’t expecting this. “Hi,” I said, forcing myself to a seated position on my bed, my comforter draped over my shoulders. “What are you doing?” (Please say you’re not at the airport.)
“I just wanted to hear your voice,” he said. He sounded depressed. “It’s been a while.”
It had been over a week, in fact—well over a week since he’d made his last-minute trip to my hometown. It had been a painful and difficult split, much more so for him, since he didn’t have the cushion of a new, exciting romance to make everything seem okay. I hated how it had gone down. But J and I had to end sometime, and I suppose it was never going to be pleasant.
“How are you?” I asked, sounding sterile.
His voice was monotone. “I’m okay. You?”
“I’m okay,” I said, deciding against expounding on how blissfully happy I was that night.
“So, when are you moving?” he asked. “I guess you’re actually going, huh?”
Gulp. Now what?
“I’m not sure,” I replied, stopping there. I didn’t feel like being 100 percent honest.
“Well, like, next week? Next month? When?” J pushed.
Another gulp. “I really don’t know,” I said again, hesitating. “I’ve been rethinking my plans a little.”
J paused. “What does that mean?”
“It means…that…,” I began. I had no idea what I was going to say.
“Last week all you could talk about was Chicago,” J interrupted. “It’s one of the reasons you said we couldn’t be together anymore!”
“Well…,” I said, thinking. “Now it looks like I may not go for a while.”
“What’s going on?” J said.
I didn’t respond.
“Wait, are you…are you going out with someone?” He asked pointedly. He was demanding, confrontational.
I was cornered; I had no choice but to spill it, though I wanted to hide under my bed instead. “Actually, J, yes…I am.” Defiance oozed from my mouth. J brought out that side of me.
“I knew it,” he said, as if he’d solved some mystery, cracked some ancient code. “I knew something like that must have been going on.”
“You did, huh?” I asked, a smidgen of sarcasm in my weary voice.
“I just knew it,” he continued. “You’ve been acting weird for the past three months.”
He had it all wrong. “Hold on, J,” I said, trying to find my calm. “I’ve only known him for three weeks.”
Wrong thing to say. “You’ve only known him for three weeks, and suddenly you’re not moving because of him?” J ranted. He was mad.
“Hey,” I said, trying to bring the conversation back to neutral. “Let’s not do this…okay?”
“Do what?” he continued, arguing. “Now I’m wondering what else you haven’t told me!”
I was starting to get mad. J was clearly hurt; I understood that. He’d clearly felt blindsided by our split, even though it had been months and months in the making. But while I’d been busy not following him to San Francisco, not visiting him with any frequency, and involving him less and less in my life back home, J, by his account, had been happy as a clam with our relationship, taking for granted just about everything that mattered. She’ll be back, he must have told himself. She doesn’t need me to call her. She knows I love her. She’ll always be there. Nothing egregious or unforgivable…but not near enough to cause me to want to stay with him for the rest of my life.
“So?” he said, his voice brimming with bitterness.
“What?” I asked defensively. I’d suddenly had enough.
“What else haven’t you told me?”
I thought for a minute. “Actually, yes…there is,” I replied, pausing to consider my words carefully, “I eat steak now.”
I’d been a vegetarian for years, certainly the entire time I’d been with J, and had only recently crossed over to my new existence as a carnivore. I’d do anything for Marlboro Man, including forsake my longtime commitment to avoiding meat. This, I knew, would be the one way to get J’s attention. This, I knew, would make everything crystal clear to him.
“My God,” J said, his bitterness replaced with disgust. “What’s happened to you?” He abruptly hung up the phone.
I guess it worked.
Now there was nothing left for him to do but face the reality that we were through. We’d simply run our course. There just wasn’t enough left between us—enough respect, enough admiration, enough appreciation—to sustain us for the long haul.
NEXT, IT was time for me to tell my family, who’d started wondering what was going on. I started with my mom.
“I might go sometime later,” I told her. “But I ain’t going now.”
“Ain’t isn’t a word, honey,” my mom said, mildly concerned.
“I know, Mom,” I replied. “It was for effect.”
“Oh, good,” she said, wiping the sweat from her freshly plucked brow. Then, smiling, she said, “I really do like his starched shirts…you know?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, my eyes closing dreamily. “I know.”
I told my dad next.
“Dad, I’ve decided not to go to Chicago right now,” I said. “I’m sort of in love with that cowboy I told you about.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I answered.
He paused for a minute, then asked, “Does J know?”
I spent the next fourteen hours filling him in.
I TOLD MY best friend in the world, my sister.
“Okay, so I’m not going now,” I told Betsy over the phone. I’d awakened her from a deep collegiate sleep.
“Going where?” she asked groggily.
“Chicago,” I continued.
“What?” she shrieked. That woke her up. That woke her up but good.
“I’m, like, totally in love,” I said. “I’m totally in love with the Marlboro Man.” I giggled wildly.
“Oh, God,” she said. “Are you gonna get married to him and move out to the boonies and have his babies?”
“No!” I exclaimed. “I’m not moving to the boonies. But I might have his babies.” I giggled wildly again.
“What about Chicago?” Betsy asked.
Well…but…,” I argued. “You have to see him in his Wranglers.”
Betsy paused. “Well, so much for this conversation. I’ve gotta go back to sleep anyway—I’ve got class at noon and I’m exhausted….”
“And you should see him in his cowboy boots,” I continued.
“Alrighty, then…”
“Okay, well, don’t worry about me,” I continued. “I’ll just be here, kissing the Marlboro Man twenty-four hours a day in case you need me.”
“Whatever…,” Betsy said, trying hard not to laugh.
“Okay, well…study hard!” I told her.
“Yep,” she replied.
“And don’t sleep around,” I admonished.
“Gotcha,” Betsy replied. She was used to this.
“And don’t smoke crack,” I added.
“Righty-oh,” she replied, yawning.
“Don’t skip class, either,” I warned.
“You mean, like you did?” Betsy retorted.
“Well, then, don’t go all the way!” I repeated.
Click.
NEXT, IT was time to tell my brother Mike.
“Hey, Mike!” I announced. “Guess what?”
“Wh-wh-wh-what?” he asked.
“I’m staying here! I’m not moving away!” I said. “Aren’t you excited?”
Mike thought for a minute, then asked, “C-c-c-can you drive me to duh fire station now?”
Finally I broke the news to my oldest brother. A resident of Chicago himself, he’d been looking forward to having a sister nearby.
“Have you lost your f*&%#ing mind?” he said. He’d never been one to mince words.
“Yes,” I conceded, attempting to defuse him. “I do believe I have.”
“What the hell are you going to do back home? You’ll shrivel up and die there, it’s so backward!” To my commodity-trading, world-traveling brother, any city with a population under three million was backward.
“What’s the story with this guy, anyway?”
“Oh, you don’t know him,” I said. “We’ve only been going out about a month or so.”
My brother’s practical side came out swinging. “You’ve only known him for a month? What the hell does he do?”
“Well,” I began, bracing myself. “He’s…a cowboy.”
“Oh, Christ.” My brother exhaled loudly.