by D. R. Graham
As I back out of the driveway, her gaze scans the interior of the truck, checking it out. I keep it clean, which she seems surprised by. “How far is the drive to your dad’s ranch?” she asks.
“Close to four hours. It’s near Three Rivers, California.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
I nod and turn left at the lights. “Yeah. It’s a nice area. I can take you there sometime.”
She smiles and runs her palms along her thighs as if she’s nervous or something. “I grew up in a village about four hours outside of Moscow. It’s not a nice area. I won’t take you there sometime. I mean, for your own sake. Not because I wouldn’t take you if you wanted to go. I’m just sure you wouldn’t like it there. That’s all. I would take you. It’s not sight-seeing worthy, though.”
“Sight-seeing worthy or not, growing up in Russia is interesting. Is your extended family still in the village?”
“My dad’s side of the family is. My mom’s side of the family is actually former Russian aristocracy, so they fled Russia a long time ago. Her parents weren’t thrilled about her marrying a poor country boy that she met at university.” Her eyes widen as she glances at me. “No offence. I have nothing against country boys. Not that I have a thing for them, either. Just nothing against them. Or poor people. Love is the most important thing. Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
I chuckle as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Should we call you princess?”
She smiles, relieved that I wasn’t offended by the poor country boy diss. “No. If we were in the nineteenth century I would have been on par with a more fully dressed Kardashian at best. Nowadays I’m just a middle-class Russian-Canadian immigrant.” She winks. “You can address me as Lady Della if you like, though.”
Being a descendant of aristocrats explains a lot, maybe not her goofy humor. That might be more a country pauper thing. I’m still smiling as I pull into a parking spot. We both hop out and I ask, “Do you speak Russian?”
“Yes, my parents both speak it at home, especially when they’re mad at me.”
I grab a grocery cart and follow her into the store. As she heads to the produce section, I chuckle at the image of her parents shouting at her. “I can’t imagine anyone ever being mad at you.”
“Oh, trust me it happens.” Her nose wrinkles as if she’s not proud to admit it but is too honest to deny it. “You don’t know me well enough yet to know I can be very grumpy if I’m stressed. And I get PMS moody, not that you probably want to know that, but maybe you guys should know if you’re going to have a female roommate.” She pauses to choose avocados from the display and places them in the cart. “You said you’re an only child, so if you haven’t spent a lot of time around sisters or girlfriends. I mean, I’m sure you’ve had lots of girlfriends or have a girlfriend.” Her eyes dart sideways to check my expression before she distractedly pokes a row of papayas one at a time.
Was that her way of asking if I’m single?
Before I have a chance to say anything she starts talking again like a racehorse out of the gate. “You definitely probably have a girlfriend, or maybe you like men. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to assume or imply anything, or not imply anything.”
She’s unquestionably fishing for my status. And I could tell her. But that might unlock a whole load of awkwardness. For both of us.
“Sorry,” she says after she notices that my mood shifted into something more serious. “I’m just trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to say that women, some women, me, I get irritable sometimes.” She picks a bundle of asparagus and a clamshell of cherry tomatoes. Then, in an oddly impressive way continues her animated gestures as she talks with her hands full. “Bottom line, living with me means you can anticipate some eye rolls and an occasional snappy tone of voice once a month. I apologize for that in advance. And if you ever get angry at me I’ll remind you of this conversation in an I-warned-you way, which will likely only aggravate you more.” She studies the firmness of a mango before making eye contact with me again. “And you’ll likely end up shouting at me in Russian.”
I smile and grab two lemons and two limes. “I’ll steer clear of you once a month. And I promise not to learn any Russian.”
“I have more flaws.” She pulls a grapefruit from the display and scrambles to catch the others before they roll down the slope. “I’m completely uncoordinated, as you might have already noticed. You’d be surprised how angry a person can get when, due to clumsiness, you break or ruin something they love. Just ask my sister about her former diamond earring that is now in the Greater Vancouver Regional District sewer system thanks to a mishap that involved a public toilet and a bee. You don’t need to know the details. I can be annoying when I’m in a chatty mood, which is almost always. Also, sometimes when I get nervous I jam my foot in my mouth and offend people by saying something inadvertently offensive or borderline stupid.” She glances at me almost as if she expects me to confirm that one.
I add a bag of apples to the cart. “Well, nobody’s perfect. And it’s entertaining for me when you do something embarrassing like your attempted touchdown dance that nearly blew out your ACL after figuring out the alarm code.”
Her face turns almost magenta and she clenches her eyes shut as if she’s attempting to erase that incident from either her memory or mine. She haphazardly tosses a head of lettuce, a bunch of carrots, and a bag of baby potatoes into the cart. Then, without saying anything, she speed-walks ahead and turns the corner into the cereal aisle.
Sexy and a goofball. Can’t say I’ve ever met anyone quite like her.
Chapter 5
Della
All three of the boys are seated at the dinner table, laughing at a joke Chuck cracked. I think it included some sort of obscure sexual innuendo, so I don’t really get why it’s funny, but I’m smiling because they enjoyed the grilled fish and asparagus dinner I made. The brownies were a hit, too. They were Easton’s choice of dessert because he doesn’t like pie. Who doesn’t like pie?
“Thanks, Della,” BJ says. “Everything was really great. We have a new contender for best cook in the house.” He smacks Easton’s shoulder to give him a hard time.
I shake my head to turn down the title. “I only have three go-to options, and one of them is spaghetti, so don’t get too excited.”
They all laugh.
Easton’s eyes meet mine for an extra beat before he takes the last bite of his brownie. Chuck jumps up from the table to clear the dishes. “Thanks for dinner, Della, but I gotta go. Janine is waiting for me. Date night. AKA Chuck gets lucky night.” He loads the dinner plates into the dishwasher and then leaves.
“Chuck has a girlfriend?” I turn to look at both Easton and BJ, whoever wants to answer.
“When it suits him,” BJ says as he gets up and clears the rest of the dessert dishes. “I have to jet, too. I’ve got a group project meeting on campus and I can’t afford to drop anymore marks. Don’t wait up.”
He leaves, and I spin my fork around on the table, thinking about what BJ said about Chuck and Janine.
“You okay?” Easton asks.
I nod, not really. “Does ‘when it suits him’ mean he cheats on his girlfriend?”
Easton’s expression makes it seem as if he wants to answer honestly but knows I won’t like it, which technically is confirmation that it’s true.
“Does his girlfriend know?”
“If she doesn’t know about at least half of it, she’s not that bright.” Easton stands and walks over to the kitchen to hand-wash the pots and pans. He sneaks another brownie straight out of the pan and pops it into his mouth.
“I don’t want to judge, but why would she tolerate that?”
He shrugs and places the pot upside down on the drying rack. “They’ve been dating for three years. And they’re probably going to get married. Maybe they both want to live the best of both worlds while they’re still young.”
Part of that does make sense—take risks and ex
perience life to the fullest so you have no regrets when you get older and settle down. But the other part is really hard for me to accept. How could you be physically intimate with someone you don’t care about when it hurts the person you do care about? I have no experience to reference it against. Maybe I would feel differently if I were in their shoes. I ponder the ethics of it for a while, but then the fact that Easton’s hair is loose distracts me. When he moves it fans out like feathers. Wild and delicate at the same time. Like visual poetry. I pick up my brownie with my bare hand and bite into it as I watch him clean the counter. Both are delicious.
After the kitchen is spotless again, he sits back at the table and offers me some wine.
“No, thank you,” I say, referring to the wine. Then I study his face. He can obviously feel me doing it because he looks up, waiting. “Do you cheat on your girlfriend?”
His eyes remain locked on mine, and with the most intense expression I have ever witnessed in another person, he says, “I don’t currently have a girlfriend. And I don’t cheat on anything.”
Whoa. Oh my goodness. Why does it feel like a supernova just blasted through me? My heart is palpitating. I think he can tell. He’s looking at me so seriously. He can read my thoughts. Is that why the other guys left? Is it that obvious that I’m crushing on Easton? Do they not realize that leaving me alone with him is not actually doing me any favors? I’m sweating like a maniac. Maybe I should go for a walk. He’d probably offer to escort me. He definitely would, like a knight in shining armor.
“Homework,” I blurt out.
His eyebrows raise, amused at my weirdness again.
“I have reading. Tomorrow’s class. I’m going to my room. Reading in my room. For homework. Then sleeping.” I stand and the chair almost topples over behind me, but he stretches his arm out and catches it before it falls. Then he pulls it back so I can attempt a more graceful exit. “Goodnight.”
“Night.” He chuckles before taking a sip of wine.
Unfortunately, he’s probably watching me as I walk away. It’s incredibly difficult to command my legs to function properly when I know someone is possibly assessing each step. The hypervigilance makes me overthink an action which is ingrained in most people by approximately twelve months of age but doesn’t come particularly natural to me. Over-thinking is bad. Where do my hands normally go? Are they supposed to swing? They feel weird at my side.
Only I would forget how to walk.
I race up the stairs and close my bedroom door. Pull it together, Della. If you’re going to live here, you need to get a grip. After several recovering breaths, I sit at my desk and open the textbook, then stare at the page for almost a minute before I realize the book is upside down. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t go to high school with boys. I’d still be there.
My phone rings. It’s Stuart. “Hey, how’s it going at Everley’s?”
“Good. You didn’t mention she’s a guy named Easton, though.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, well, little miss virtuous wouldn’t have given it a shot if she knew that ahead of time. He’s great, though, right?”
“Yeah. He’s great.” So great. I stare in a dreamy way out the window, but since it’s dark outside, all I see is my own reflection. Oh, man, is that a chunk of rice in my hair? How did that get there? “How are you, Stu?”
“Good. The reason I’m calling is because your dad contacted me.”
“Ugh. So Annoying. I can’t believe he bothered you. Obviously, the fact that I’ve been dodging his calls wasn’t a clear enough message that I don’t want to talk to him right now.”
“He wants me to give him your address. I don’t really want to get mixed up in any family drama, so if you want him to have it, you should send it to him. If you don’t want him to have it, I’m going to tell him that.”
“Why does he want it anyway?”
“I don’t know. Maybe to forward your mail or show up at your doorstep and ground you.”
“Great.” I lean my elbows on my desk and rub the tension out of my forehead. “Did you tell him my roommates are men?”
“No. I didn’t tell him anything. But you’re probably going to have to call him.”
“I’ll call him so he knows I’m okay. Don’t give him the address. I’ll set up a post box he can send stuff to.”
“All right. How are you for money? Do you need anything?”
“No. The student loan came in today. But thank you.”
“Call your dad.”
“Okay.” I end the call with Stuart and dial my mom. She never answers her mobile phone because she can never find it. It’s the perfect excuse for me not to talk to them. I leave a message to let them know I’m all settled in and promise to send the address. That should earn me another week or two before Dad hounds Stuart again. I also text my sister. We weren’t really that close growing up because she’s five years older than me. She’s already married and has a kid now. But she supported me when I decided to go against Dad’s wishes and pursue engineering instead of a teaching degree. She always caved into the pressure and did everything he expected her to do, which is why she completely understands how hard it was for me to come to Stanford. It’s the one and only rebellious thing I’ve ever done, which is why I really don’t want to mess up and give him reason to gloat. The last thing my sister said before I started off on the road trip was that she admired me. It still makes me feel warm and fuzzy when I think about it. She doesn’t respond to the text. She must be busy with the baby, so I pick up my textbook.
Chapter two, paragraph one. Go.
Easton is still downstairs. It sounds like he’s doing a load of laundry. Maybe I should plan to do all my studying at the library. That might work if I don’t spend the entire time thinking about what he might be doing back at the house. I wonder if studying with him would be more or less distracting since my mind wouldn’t have to drift very far. Who am I kidding? I’m just trying to come up with a justifiable excuse to ask him to study with me. Nice try.
He’s coming upstairs. He went into his room.
Chapter two, paragraph one.
He crosses the hall to the bathroom, then the shower turns on.
Chapter two, paragraph two.
Shoot. Now I’m thinking about what he looks like with water cascading over his smooth, dark skin. Muscles. Long hair.
Chapter two, paragraph three.
Hmm. He made a sound, more like a groan, like he’s straining. Or like he hurt himself. Maybe he stubbed his toe. That’s something I would do. I did do it. This morning. But he must be okay. He just sighed in relief, like a huge stress was released. Ha. I wonder if he knows that when he stubs his toe it sounds like something sexy. Wait. I sit up straight, close my book, and stare at the wall that divides my room and their bathroom. Was it something sexy? Guys do that in the shower, right? No. Maybe. Oh my gosh. Did I just listen to Easton masturbating? Why am I whispering my thoughts? He can’t hear me. But I heard him. I invaded his privacy. I stand and pace around the room frantically. I feel weird, like I should tell him the walls aren’t exactly sound proof. But that would be even more awkward.
Oh no, the bathroom door opened. He crosses the hall to his room. I wonder if he streaked across naked or wrapped a towel around his waist. Uh oh. He’s back in the hall. He’s going back downstairs. Sit down, Della. Stop acting like a freak. Chapter what? Paragraph what?
He knocks on my door. “Hey, Della. Are you decent?”
Um, of course. What kind of question is that? “Yes. Are you?”
He laughs and opens my door. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, hair tied in a knot. I blink at him repeatedly, not sure how to act. “Sorry to interrupt your studies. I’m going to make tea if you want some?”
“Sure.”
“And I was also thinking since the rodeo this coming weekend is only an hour away, you might want to come out for the finals on Saturday and see what we do. It’s up to you. I just wanted to make sure you know you’re always welcome.�
�
I nod. “Okay. Thank you. That sounds fun.”
He smiles, then steps back into the hall.
“I heard you stub your toe in the shower,” I blurt out. “Are you okay?”
His expression gets stuck somewhere between about to laugh and complete bewilderment. Eventually he flashes an Everley super model wink and says, “I think I’m going to be all right.”
After he leaves, I lean forward and bang my forehead against my desk, repeatedly. Stupid. Stupid. I’m going to die of embarrassment.
Chapter 6
Easton
Della joins us on the driveway as we’re loading Chuck’s truck with our rodeo gear, getting ready to leave for the final day of competition. “Morning,” I say.
“Morning.” Her nose wrinkles after looking down at her flip-flops, jeans, and white tank top. “I don’t know what to wear to a rodeo. Is this all right?”
“That’s perfect,” BJ says. “You might want to bring a sweater for later, though. It can get cold at night.”
“Night? How long does the event take? I thought it was eight seconds each.”
He laughs. “There are a lot of events. Then we’ll go for dinner. And there’s a dance after. We’ll be out late.”
She inhales with a hint of frustration as if she feels that would have been useful information to have known beforehand. “I’ll be right back.”
I’ve got my new rigging stretched out in the garage, so I follow her inside to get it. Before I head back outside, I also grab a white cowboy hat that some girl BJ brought home once left here.
Della emerges from the house wearing a light-blue cotton dress that makes all three of us stare. No more bed bug bites to distract from her flawless skin. She changed into leather sandals and she’s carrying a denim jacket. She also pulled her ponytail out, ready for an outing that includes a dance later. Damn. Heads are definitely going to turn at the rodeo.
“Is that suitcase handle thing what you hold onto the horse with?” she asks.
