by Joanna Bell
My palms were sweaty again. "I told you. I met someone. I met a man."
"OK, yes, we've established that much. What I can't figure out is why you're acting so strangely about it. So you met a man – that's wonderful! Where did you meet? What's his name?"
"We, uh –" I began, coughing as my throat suddenly dried up. "We – hold on, I have to get some water."
I looked around for a mini-bar but there wasn't one so I filled a paper cup in the bathroom and took a sip. It didn't help.
"His name is Cillian. Cillian Devlin. We met, uh – we met –"
I coughed again and took another useless gulp of water.
"Oh Astrid," my mom said as I struggled to come up with a coherent series of words. "You're not – please tell me you're not pregnant. Are you?"
She might as well have been asking me if I'd just lost both my legs in a terrible accident, so filled with dread was her tone.
No, not pregnant! Not that I know of anyway – I did just spend the past week having a whole lot of unprotected sex with a stranger, though. Oh and did I mention I married him too? Whee!
"Astrid?!" My mother's voice rose. She's not really a yeller. Never has been. So when the pitch and the volume do begin to spike, you know it's about to get bad.
"No!" I replied quickly, hoping to God she couldn't hear the fakeness of my laugh. "Pregnant? No."
"Oh thank God," she exhaled. "Oh, thank God for that. What did you say his name was? Devlin? Do I know –"
"I am married, though."
I said it really fast, trying to slip it into the moment of relief over my (hopefully) not being pregnant: 'Iammarriedthough.' What was I thinking would happen? That she wouldn't hear me and I could just pretend she did and chose to ignore it?
But she did hear, because she immediately went quiet. For a long time.
"Mom?" I said, about thirty seconds into the silence. "Mom?"
When the silence continued, I spoke up again. And when I did, I could hear my own voice shaking:
"Didn't you just say it wasn't your business who I married? Mom? Are you there? I thought you said –"
"I did say that," she replied and oh, God, the way she sounded. Her tone was flat, devoid of all emotions except profound disappointment. Why is a parent's disappointment always so much worse than their anger? "And it's true, I suppose. I guess it isn't my business who you marry."
"Good, because –"
"Astrid, I think I'm going to hang up now. You need to come home and face your father and I – and if there's anything to say we can say it then."
My stomach dropped into my toes. I didn't want my mom to go. I wanted her to talk to me. I wanted her to help me figure everything out, the way she always did. I wanted her to reassure me that everything was going to be OK.
"No," I whispered, my face flushing hot with shame. "Mom, please don't g–"
"No, I think I'm going to go. This is – wow, this is big news. I need some time to let this sink in. We'll talk when you get back."
And then, because everything my mother was thinking about me not being mature enough to handle life on my own was apparently true, I burst into tears.
"Please don't go," I begged pathetically. "Mom? Mommy? Please don't go. I need to talk to you. I think maybe I made a mistake and –"
"I love you," she said, still speaking in that same flat, awful tone of voice. "But – yes, I need some time. I love –"
"MOM!" I yelled, starting to panic. "Please don't hang up! Please don't–"
She hung up.
She hung up and I sat on the bed staring at my phone screen in shock. My mother didn't do things like that. She didn't hang up on me or walk out of the room. Ever. No matter what kind of trouble I was in or how angry or upset she was, she just didn't. So when she did, it scared the absolute hell out of me.
To be fair, I wasn't the type of kid who got into serious trouble. I hardly got into trouble of any kind. The most critical comment I ever got on a grade school report card was something along the lines of: 'Astrid is sometimes a little too concerned with not getting into trouble.'
How uptight does a kid have be for a teacher to make a comment like that?
Well you've made up for all that goody two-shoes bullshit now, haven't you?
I let my parents down. For a few blissful days it was easy to forget that fact, or to leave it unacknowledged. I had Cillian, and we had all the passion in the world to distract us from everything but each other. But back down on planet earth, there was no way around it, no justification for what I did.
My parents raised me well. They gave me the kind of childhood most people can only dream of. And I paid them back by marrying a cowboy I'd known for a day.
I had to go home and face them. I had to figure out what I was going to do – about everything. I had to think, too. And I knew I wasn't going to be able to do it around Cillian. So I made the first adult decision of the week and arranged a private flight to take me back to Miami the next day. My brief interlude away from reality was over.
When the flight confirmation came through I turned my phone off, lay face down on the bed, and sobbed.
Chapter 19: Cillian
I woke up early the next day, just as dawn was beginning to burn off the blanket of fog that settles over the foothills at night. The first thing I did was pick up my phone – and then put it right back down again.
No. If I was going to call, I had to have something for her. An apology. A plan. Anything.
I knew my 'marriage' was over. I knew it was probably always destined to end that way. And if not, I definitely knew it after that 'family dinner.' What a fucking disaster.
But I knew something else as well. I knew that I didn't want it to be over.
I didn't want to never see Astrid Walker again. I didn't want to live the rest of my life tormented by memories of being with her, comparing every girl I met to her. And I didn't want her to think I was the type of man who just gave up and accepted his fate. Maybe I would be forced to accept it anyway – but not without letting Astrid know it wasn't what I wanted.
Was what I wanted immature, ridiculous and wildly unrealistic? Sure, maybe it was. But it was still what I wanted. She was still what I wanted. And I had to let her know. Then, if she chose to leave me anyway, at least I would have the (cold, admittedly) comfort of knowing I didn't pussy out and let her go without even trying to hold on.
***
"I can't. I have to be at the airport."
As I suspected, she was leaving. But she wasn't gone yet.
"You're flying private though, right?"
"Yes. What does that have to –"
"So you can postpone it? The flight?"
Astrid sighed. "I guess so. But – what would be the point? I don't – I'm not saying it's over. I just need to see my parents. And I need to think, I need to figure things out. Alone."
"I want to show you something," I said, speaking in such a rush I'm not sure I even registered anything she said. "If you say no, I'll accept it but there is – there is something I want you to see."
"Can you send it to my phone?"
I laughed. "No, it can't be sent on a phone."
She went quiet, considering whether or not to take me up on my offer.
"Look," I continued. "I know last night was bad. I know my dad is a psycho. I know my family is a lot – I even know I'm a lot. But I like you. Outside of everything else – outside of my family and my dad and my future at the ranch – I like you. I know I don't know you. But I like the parts I do know. A lot. More than I've ever liked anyone before. I feel like if we met under different circumstances, or –"
"Or if we didn't get married after knowing each other for a day?"
"Yeah, or that. I just feel like there's a chance – and I meant what I said, I won't try to keep you here if you need some time alone. Just let me show you this one thing."
"How long will it take?"
"I don't know," I replied. "A few hours. Maybe 6? Seven?"
; "Seven hours?"
"Yeah, I know – but you'll see why. And when we're done I'll drive you to the airport myself and give you a kiss and let you go back to Miami. No pressure. I promise."
I meant that promise when I made it. I couldn't keep it, but I meant it at the time.
"OK," Astrid replied eventually, after a long pause. "I'll stay – but only for this one thing OK? I really do have to go back to Miami."
Giddy relief flooded over me. I pushed it back down so she wouldn't hear it in my voice. It's reflexive for us Devlins. Emotion? Any emotion other than anger? Get rid of it, stuff it down, sweep it under the rug before anyone witnesses it.
"Great," I replied. "OK. Good. Good."
***
A short time later my wife and I were standing in the stables at the ranch listening to the soft snorting of horses.
"You can ride with me," I was saying, hoisting a saddle off the wall. "It'll be easier than –"
"I know how to ride a horse, Cillian."
I turned to Astrid and it struck me that of course she would know how to ride. I laughed and performed a cartoonishly subservient bow. "Oh yeah. Apologies ma'am, I forgot how rich and important you are."
"Shut up!" She smiled, softening just enough to pick up a handful of straw and chuck it at me. "I learned when I was a little girl. Haven't been on a horse in a few years but it should be fine as long as you don't give me a wild Montana stallion."
I raised one eyebrow at her. "I think you'll find, little lady, that the only wild stallion around here is me."
She threw another handful of straw over me.
***
We rode out just after 9 a.m., heading west into the foothills along one of the trails that crisscrosses the Devlin Ranch. The last vestiges of morning fog disappeared as the sun's heat grew, and the sky was so blue and so free of clouds it almost hurt to look at.
"I don't think I've ever smelled air this clean," Astrid called from behind me – the path was narrow, and the horses went single file.
"Just wait 'til we get where we're goin'" I yelled back. "Air's so clean your lungs won't know what hit them!"
I had sandwiches and water in the saddlebags, and a little leather pouch that used to belong to my grandfather attached to my belt. Inside the pouch, lined up in two neat rows of 6, were 12 shotgun shells. The shotgun itself was strapped to my back.
"Do you really need that thing?" My probable soon-to-be-ex-wife asked, as the pine trees began to close in over the open hills and the trail began its deceptively subtle initial tilt in an uphill direction.
"We're in grizzly country," I replied. "Haven't needed it yet – but I wouldn't ride out here without it."
She seemed to accept my answer. City folk sometimes get antsy about guns, but I've noticed it usually doesn't take more than a single utterance of the word 'grizzly' to make them pipe down real quick.
It was nice riding with Astrid. 'Nice' doesn't really begin to cut it. It was wonderful. Maybe it was knowing she was leaving later that day that made it so wonderful? No. It wasn't that. The truth was she was wonderful. Just being with her made me happy. It was a good kind of happy, too – a wholesome kind. Not the kind that involves being better than someone else or having more money or a shinier truck than another man. It was the kind of happy I hadn't felt for so long I half think I forgot it even existed.
It was true I didn't really know Astrid. It was also true there were almost certainly parts of her I wouldn't like, or parts that would freak me out – the way meeting my fucked up family freaked her out. None of it made being with her any less wonderful to me that morning.
"I wish you could ride in front!" I yelled over my shoulder as the horses took us through a stand of ponderosa pines.
"Why?" She yelled back.
"Because then I could look at your ass!"
The wind carried her giggles away through the trees and out over the hills. I wondered what lucky critters might be out there, perking their ears up as they heard it.
"Well maybe I like looking at YOUR ass."
"Fair enough!" I laughed, wiggling in the saddle to her amusement.
Barely a week into our acquaintance – and our marriage – and I was already a different man. Not so different – a week is only a week, after all. But the old me wouldn't have been caught dead shaking my ass like a stripper just to make a girl laugh. The old me thought he was too manly for that, too serious. He was wrong. It wasn't manliness or seriousness that kept me still where others would have danced. It was my unease in my own skin. It was parts of myself I always thought were inherent – until I met her.
***
We stopped at a creek an hour or so in to let the horses drink and Astrid gasped when she dismounted and turned around to look behind us.
"Oh my God," she whispered, pulling off the cowboy hat I'd lent her to keep the sun off her head. "I didn't realize we were so high up already."
"You look like a real cowgirl in that hat," I told her, strangely wistful and horny at the same time. "You even wipe your forehead the right way."
"Do I?" She asked, turning back towards me.
I nodded. "Yup, on the back of your wrist like that."
I could have fucked her right then and there, beside the creek. The temperature was certainly rising in more ways than one. It would have been so easy to reach out and slip my hand around her waist, pull her against me, kiss her neck until she went soft and pliant in my arms.
But I wanted to get where we were going. I had a plan. I told her I wanted to show her something, that it was going to take a few hours, and that I would drive her to the airport when it was done. It was a promise of sorts, to take her back to the airport and not try to talk her into staying – and I wanted to keep it. I wanted Astrid Walker to know I could keep my promises – even if it meant tolerating a case of blue balls.
So I kept my hands off her. For once in my life there was something – someone – more important to me than getting laid.
When the horses were fully watered we continued on up the path as it grew steeper. The trees really began to close in, too, forcing us to duck and dodge overhanging branches as we went. It was a couple of years since I'd last taken that particular ride into the mountains and knowing it was spring – when the bears are stumbling hangrily out of their winter hibernation – had me on full alert.
We soon settled into the quiet rhythm of the ride, lulled by the sound of the horses' hooves on the dry earth. It was enough just knowing Astrid was there, only a few feet behind me. If only that ride up the mountain could have lasted forever.
***
Eventually, we broke through the tree line and into a scree field. The horses knew what to do, picking their way carefully along the track until the scree gave way to a small alpine meadow full of fireweed and bright orange Indian paintbrush.
Astrid didn't say anything at first. She hopped down off her horse and turned around in a slow circle, gazing in every direction and breathing in the fresh mountain air.
"Montana may be full of redneck cowboys," I said, gesturing at the view, "but at least we've got this going for us."
"It's beautiful," she whispered, pointing slightly to the northeast. "Is that the ranch?"
I took her hand and guided it a little further south. "No, it's there. Do you see the river?"
"Yeah."
"Just west of there, straight ahead – do you see main house? You can see the driveway leading to the road."
"Oh," she said, nodding. "Yeah, OK. That's the house? It looks so small!"
"Everything looks small from up here."
Astrid turned to look at me, shielding her eyes from the bright midday sun. I thought she was going to say something more for a moment, but she didn't.
I asked if she was hungry or thirsty.
"Yeah – I'm thirsty. Actually I'm hungry, too. I would have brought some food if I knew how far we were –" she broke off as I pulled a bottle of water and 2 sandwiches out of one of the saddlebags. "Oh. Yeah, I gue
ss you knew how far we were going."
I offered her a sandwich and when she took it out of my hand, a huge slab of tomato fell out and landed in the grass. She laughed.
"You made these – didn't you?"
"Uh-huh."
"I can tell."
She picked up the tomato and examined it. "What is this, 2 inches thick? And –"
But before the critique could continue, a massive chunk of ham followed the tomato, landing in the exact same spot.
"Why didn't you slice it thinner?" She giggled.
"Because it came out of a can. I guess I just kinda mushed it in there."
"Oh my God," she put her hand up to her mouth. "Canned ham? Really? I didn't even know that was a thing."
"I found it in the cupboard," I shrugged, slightly embarrassed. "Don't laugh at me, rich girl. I bet you've never made a sandwich, either."
"I've made a sandwich before," she replied haughtily.
"Oh yeah? When?"
Astrid waved her free hand around, as if to indicate the general ridiculousness of assuming her to be as unacquainted with sandwich-making as myself. "You know, I just have. Probably when I was at college."
I eyed her. "Probably, huh? So you don't even remember?"
"Fine," she conceded. "Maybe I haven't. Who knows? But I do know you have to slice things before you put them between bread. You can't just cram chunks of canned ham in there and hope for the best."
We were both grinning, enjoying giving each other shit. I did insist on trading sandwiches so she would get the one with the ham and tomato still in it.
"How gallant," she joked when I wouldn't take no for an answer.
"Just hold on tight so it doesn't end up all over the ground."
I think she liked it, though – me giving her the best sandwich – in spite of her jokes. Or maybe that was just me, discovering the joys of chivalry a few hours before the only woman I'd ever really been interested in treating chivalrously was due to leave?
After we ate we took a walk around the meadow. On one side a stream burbled down towards the foothills. Astrid knelt down and stuck her hands into it, immediately yanking them back out with a gasp.
"Oh! That's cold!"
