by D. R. Graham
I laugh. “You can call me whatever you want. If I don’t like something I’ll tell you.”
“Okay. Cool.” She exhales and her posture relaxes. “Could you use my phone to download a picture of an Orlov Trotter for me, please? I want to see what type of beast you compared me to.”
I search for one with a star-speckled coat, then hold it up for her to look at.
“Oh,” is all she says.
What does “oh” mean? I turn the phone to look at the screen, wondering why her smile dropped off her face. Apparently, comparing a woman to a horse is a bad idea. If she knew it was a type of horse I’ve always loved she would probably be less offended. But I’m not saying that to someone I’ve known for less than a week. Especially not in front of these guys who will never let me forget it. I slide her phone back in her purse and close the zipper. I want to tell her how I feel. I shouldn’t. Or maybe I should. Maybe it’s better to just lay it all out on the table. Or not.
We drive for a while with only the classical music filling the silence, but then a car merges in too fast from an on-ramp and crosses three lanes before swerving back into the second lane. “Hang back from that guy. It looks like he’s been drinking,” I say.
She nods and eases off the accelerator to slow down. “Did they ever charge the drunk driver who killed your mom?”
I turn my head to stare out the side window. It’s not a bad thing that she’s interested and cares enough to ask, but I don’t like to talk about it. I’m surprised I even told her in the first place. Only people who knew me back then know what really happened. I can’t not answer her, though. Whatever. Just say it, Havie. “Yeah. He went to prison for two years.”
“Two years. That’s it? Doesn’t seem fair to take a child’s mom away from him and only have to serve two years.”
I nod and check over my shoulder again. Everybody is still out cold. “He’ll have to live with the guilt the rest of his life. That’s punishment enough.”
“Not if he doesn’t feel guilty.”
I run my hand through my hair and avoid looking at her. “He feels guilty.”
Her head turns to study me. I can feel the stare as she lets the comment sink in. “You know for a fact he feels guilty?”
“Yeah. Hey, I’m starving. Do you mind taking this exit, so we can hit a drive-thru?”
She obviously knows I purposely dodged the subject but lets me get away with it. She signals and exits off the highway.
Chuck and Janine woke up at the drive-thru and ordered cheese burgers. They stay awake for the rest of the ride home, so Della and I stick to small talk and steer clear of anything too deep or personal.
She parks on the driveway and smiles at herself, proud of the accomplishment of getting us all home safely. BJ is still passed out and tumbles out onto the grass when I open the back door. Chuck hooks his elbows under BJ’s armpits and I grab BJ’s ankles to carry him into the house. We toss him onto the couch instead of lugging him all the way upstairs to his room, which he’ll be ornery about when he wakes up in the morning with a kink in his back.
Janine and Chuck head up to his bedroom, whispering and giggling. I follow Della up the stairs and stop in the hall. She pauses at her door and turns to face me. “Thanks for inviting me. I had a really great time.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“I’m sorry for bringing up your mom. It obviously makes you uncomfortable. I have a knack for asking a person about the one thing they really don’t want to talk about. Just tell me to stop talking next time I make you uncomfortable. It will definitely happen again at some point. I can guarantee that. I won’t be offended if you just shut me down. I would rather know I’m treading on a touchy subject right away before I inadvertently bother you. The last thing I meant to do was upset you.”
“I know. You don’t need to apologize for caring. It’s hard to talk about what happened, but that’s mostly because I’ve never talked about it with anybody before you. It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. It might take some getting used to, though, if you don’t mind being patient with me.”
The compassion in her smile ticks another box for me. Things are going to be too weird if I don’t come clean. It’s impossible to be this attracted to a person and then just walk away at the end of the night like she means nothing. I can’t do it. Or I can’t not do it. I have to do something. I glance down the hallway. Chuck and Janine are being loud with the bedroom antics. “Is it all right if I come in for a minute?”
“Um.” Her posture stiffens with pure trepidation over having me in her room at two o’clock in the morning. “Sure.” Her voice wavers as she steps inside and swings the door wider to invite me in. She continues to hold onto the doorknob in a death grip.
This isn’t going to go well if she’s worried that I’m trying to put the moves on her, so I attempt to ease her discomfort. “I just want to tell you something. Is it okay if I’m completely honest with you?”
“Of course.” She closes the door and leans her back against it to face me.
“I like you,” I say bluntly.
Her eyes widen and she blinks slowly like a stunned bunny.
“I don’t like game playing, so I’m not going to pretend that I don’t think you’re awesome. You are. And I’m dying to ask you for a goodnight kiss. The problem is that the guys and I agreed it wouldn’t be a good idea for any of us to date the new roommate. I don’t want to do anything to screw things up and jeopardize our living arrangements, but I also don’t want you to think I’m not interested. I am. Very interested. And the reason I rode so well today had nothing to do with my new rigging. I was showing off for you. I realize now that it sounds arrogant to assume you might want to date me in the first place. Maybe you never would have considered it anyway, but in case I had a chance I thought I should clarify exactly why I’m not taking the next step. I want to, but it’s probably best if we just stay friends. Because of the circumstances. Sorry. Or not sorry, depending how you feel about it. Now I’m the one rambling.”
She blinks repeatedly and her mouth drops open slightly, but no sound comes out.
“So, yeah. That’s all I wanted to tell you.” I study her face to read her expression. Since she hasn’t fully decided how she feels about the disclosure, it’s impossible to read her reaction. I wait for a few more beats, but she’s not any closer to coming up with a response. Maybe I should let her sleep on the news to process it. We can talk in the morning. If she wants to. She might not want to. I might have just screwed things up. Badly. “Are you okay?”
She nods almost indiscernibly and grips the doorknob as if it’s what’s keeping her upright.
She opens the door and I step out into the hall. “Goodnight.”
She nods again and then closes her door.
Chapter 9
Della
I couldn’t sleep after Easton left my room. I tried, but my heart was racing too fast. I took a shower to calm down, which didn’t help, so I ended up listening to Tennessee Whiskey on repeat and stared at the ceiling above my bed until the sun came up. My sister met her first boyfriend at her summer job at the mall when she was fifteen and, even though they would work an entire shift together, she would come home and they would talk or text all evening, too. I never understood that crazy insatiable desire to stay connected with a person, until now.
I appreciate that Easton just came out and honestly told me he likes me. It eliminates any guess work and potential for miscommunication. But that’s the problem. I now know for an absolute fact that he likes me. What am I supposed to do with that information? Part of me wants to move out just so we could go on a date. Part of me knows as soon as he tries to kiss me and finds out how laughably inexperienced I am, the relationship will end before it even starts. Maybe Easton only likes the idea of me—a virginal, homeless damsel sleeping conveniently across the hall. Or maybe it’s a competitive thing with the other guys and he likes the idea of beating them to get the girl.
Or maybe he r
eally likes me. I’m a good catch. I’m smart. I’m funny. I’m pretty. I’m also a complete dork with zero sexual experience. What’s not to love? I want to tell him I feel the same way. I’m going to definitely do it. I think. At some point. Maybe it would be easier if I didn’t say anything. We could just carry on living together and be friends. That would be best for everyone. Except I really do like him. I should talk to him. At some point when my brain doesn’t feel like it’s about to explode. I need to go for a run first. It’s only five o’clock. Who cares?
I jump out of bed and dress in shorts and a running top. I don’t know my way around the neighborhood yet, but I can head over to the campus. I tie my hair into a ponytail and open my bedroom door. Easton’s door opens at the same time. He’s shirtless. Hair braided. Boxer briefs bulging. Huge scar up the side of his upper thigh. Stop staring. I force my eyelids shut to give the impression that I’m functioning properly, but since the unnatural blink feels more like a combination of a wink and a wince, I assume he’s not convinced I’m normal.
An amused expression lights up his face before he says, “Hi.”
Not ready to talk to him. Head literally about to blow. Can’t breathe. “Morning.” I avert my eyes and point at the stairs. “Just leaving. Have to run. Going running. See you. After. When you’re dressed. Gotta go.” I sneak a glance at his face. He’s smiling. He’s so gorgeous. I’m going to definitely move out, so I can find out what it feels like to press my lips against his. Or maybe I can talk him into letting me stay and kiss him. I point at his leg to pretend like I wasn’t staring at his lips. “You didn’t mention femur surgery on your list of rodeo injuries.”
He glances down at his thigh. “That one’s not from rodeo. It’s from the car accident.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize you were in the car when it happened.” I want to ask him more about it but standing in the hall in his underwear at five o’clock in the morning is not the right time or place. Even I know that, so I settle for, “Sorry.”
He reaches up to unbraid his hair and says, “I’m driving out to help my dad again today. Would you like to come with me?”
Yes. Absolutely. Wait. Did he change his mind about us being just friends? No, he probably means as friends. Does it matter? He wants to spend the day with me. Say yes, Della. No, it’s not a good idea. I don’t want to get too attached. I’m already too attached. And I’m behind on my schoolwork because of yesterday. I need more time to sort out my thoughts. “I would love to, but I have some reading to do and an assignment I have to finish. I should probably stay here.”
“Bring your work with you. I have chores to do on the ranch for a few hours. You can get all your studying done there.”
When does he study? He must be really smart and get by with winging it. Maybe he doesn’t sleep. Obviously, he doesn’t, we only went to bed a few hours ago. But he’s too pretty to not ever sleep. My eyes wander over his bare upper body. There is no doubt I want to go with him. It will be weird, right? Meeting his dad. Seeing where he grew up. Hanging out, just the two of us, for the entire day. Actually, friends do things like that. Boyfriends and girlfriends do things like that, too. Is he trying to confuse me?
Chuck’s bedroom door opens and he steps into the hall, groggy and adjusting his boxer briefs, which he might already be aware are not as bulging as Easton’s. Hence the fancy truck. He has a roughly drawn tattoo of something that vaguely resembles a deer head on his left chest and a trail of what looks like mouse droppings angling down his abs. Maybe they’re misshapen animal footprints. “Sup?” he says before he cuts past Easton and disappears into the bathroom.
“Think about whether you want to come to the ranch while you’re out on your run,” Easton says quietly to me. “I’ll make breakfast. You can decide after we eat.”
“Okay,” I squeak out, then spin around and rush down the stairs. I already know what my answer is.
I only ran for twenty minutes and we left by six while everyone else was still asleep. We made good time to Three Rivers. The ranch is another half an hour out from here. Easton’s truck is not as showy as Chuck’s, but that’s what I like about it. It’s genuinely country and not pretentious at all. Like him.
It’s attractive to me that Easton is comfortable being judged on his integrity and how he treats people rather than shallow and trivial things like a brand new, over-the-top truck. Although I know nothing about rural living, I’ve always been drawn to that down-to-earth quality in others. Rich, poor, from the city or the country, doesn’t matter, people who are secure with who they are don’t need to show off. Our family was poor when we first arrived in Canada. The only reason my sister and I were able to attend a private prep academy was because Dad’s boss was on the board of directors at the school and granted us financial bursaries. It didn’t take long for me to figure out that the most conceited and superficial girls at our school were either the other bursary girls who were insecure and trying to prove something, or the few rich girls who had nothing else redeeming going for them besides mommy and daddy’s money.
In many ways, Easton is completely opposite to me—not that it was my goal to find a questionably coordinated, suburban, Russian-Canadian immigrant exactly like me. But maybe compatible values are all that matters. Not that I’m one hundred percent sure. I don’t even know what it’s normally like to hang out with someone who is romantically interested. My only experience hanging out with guys my own age was with my two cousins who were more interested in their video games than talking to me. I’m fairly sure it’s not always this comfortable. I can’t explain it, but it feels like Easton was custom made for me. Like my soul’s counterpart, my yin to his yang. His mac to my cheese. No, not his bacon to my eggs. Don’t ever say any of those things out loud, Della.
“We need to stop here,” Easton says as we approach a small one-street strip of shops in the middle of nowhere—a gas station, a hair salon, a deli, and a place called Mathers General Store and Diner. He slows down and parks on the side of the street. “Do you like root beer floats?”
He’s wearing a baseball cap instead of his cowboy hat today. It’s a whole different type of sexy – not better or worse – just different. I mean, he would look hot in whatever he had on, but the ball hat is doing something to me. Or maybe it’s the fact that he didn’t shave and has a sexy scruff thing going on. Or the white T-shirt that pulls tight over his chest and biceps. Or the thick metal belt buckle. Wait. What was the question? “Of course, I do. Who doesn’t like root beer floats?”
I climb out of the truck and follow him into the general store. The left side of the store is set up with grocery shelves. And along the right side is a long fifties-style diner counter and stools. He sits down on the end stool and spins to face me as I sit next to him. His legs straddle either side of my stool. “I didn’t want to assume you like root beer floats. You didn’t think there was anybody who doesn’t like pie until you met me.”
“True. The pie thing is odd. I get not liking one type of pie, like lemon meringue or mincemeat, but all pies doesn’t make any sense. You like blueberries. You like apples. What difference does it make if they’re baked into a sweet, warm, crumbly crust?”
“The crust is like an ice cream cone. Dry and unnecessary.”
I shake my head. “I’m always surprised to discover how many weirdos there are in the world. I suppose root beer float haters are no exception. I’m not one of them, though.”
He laughs and waves through a window opening to an attractive older woman in the kitchen. Her red and gray streaked hair, freckles, and Bohemian clothes give her a Sissy Spacek vibe. “Easton!” She smiles and rushes out through a swing door, then leans over the counter. Easton stands to hug her. “Welcome home, darlin’. How you been?”
“Good. Thanks. This is Della. Della, this is Crystal. She’s been like a second mom to me, keeping me out of trouble.”
“Yeah, and that was no small feat,” she laughs. “Nice to meet you, Della.” She pulls out two fountain gla
sses without even asking for our orders and fills them with soda and scoops the ice cream from a tub. “Has your daddy been honest with you about how he’s feeling?”
Easton shrugs and slides over the first glass for me. “Not really. He tells me he’s fine, but he’s always got a list of things for me to do when I come home to help him out.”
“Well, you and I both know he’s as tough as a cornered rattler. He’ll bounce back soon enough.” She points at me. “And a visit from your pretty girlfriend oughta cheer him up.”
Easton looks over at me and smiles. I wait for him to correct her, but he doesn’t.
“Go on then,” Crystal says with an encouraging hand gesture. “Give it a try. If it ain’t the best root beer float you ever tasted, I’ll close up shop and retire to Mexico.”
I dip the straw in and take a sip. Easton watches my mouth expectantly. Oh, my goodness that is delicious. I pause only long enough to say, “Wow,” then suck back another straw full of bubbly, creamy goodness. “Don’t retire. This is definitely the best I’ve ever had. And I practically consider myself a float connoisseur.”
“That’s good since Easton has broken up with girls for the single reason that they didn’t like my root beer floats. You pass the Crystal test.”
