The Pioneer Woman (7 page)

“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.

 

N
EXT, 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.

 

N
EXT, 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.

I'
D FOUND
love in the arms of a cowboy I called Marlboro Man. And what ample, amazing arms they were: bulging, with muscles wrought by a lifetime of intense physical labor; strong, in every literal sense of the word; but soft and protective, too, in all the right ways. I'd never been held by arms like these, never in my life. Arms that made me feel nine hundred different emotions at once—and all this time I'd thought there was only a handful of emotions to be felt. Happy. Sad. Angry. Glad. Excited. Bored.

Boy, had I been wrong. Just hearing his voice over the phone sent about two hundred different synapses firing in my central nervous system; an hour in his arms, and I'd pretty much felt them all, twice. Tingly elation, fizzy mania, utter contentment…and prickly fear at the thought of ever being without those arms in my life again.

Those arms. Beyond the obvious physical attractiveness, there was just something magical about them. They were filled with some kind of special chemical that seemed only to release itself when locked passionately around my waist. And the chemical was potent, intoxicating, like the second sip of red wine or the scent of burning patchouli. Times a million. Arms like that should be bronzed. Captured and preserved for all eternity.

We spent every possible moment together, driving around his ranch, cooking each other dinner, watching movies…trying our best to practice restraint on the comfortable couch in the living room of his isolated house on the ranch. And we largely remained alone on our dates, as nightclubs and parties weren't anywhere to be had. And we had no use for them anyway; socializing and meeting people weren't high on our agenda. We had way too much to learn about each other.

Soon, however, Marlboro Man decided it was time for me to meet his brother, Tim. The call came on my car phone as I drove to his ranch one evening, as I stared out of the windshield of my car and looked forward with eager anticipation to the glorious evening ahead of me. I'd have Marlboro Man all to myself. I'd get to crawl into those magical arms and forget the world around me. Though it had been less than twenty-four hours since I'd last seen him, I couldn't wait to get my fix.

“Hey,” Marlboro Man said. “Where are you?”

Like I knew. I was somewhere between my house and his. “Oh…somewhere between my house and yours,” I said, copping to my directional cluelessness.

He chuckled. “Okay, let me put it this way: are you more than halfway to my house? Or have you not gone that far?” He was already learning to speak my language.

“Umm…,” I said, looking around and trying to remember what time I'd left my house. “I would say…I would say…I'm exactly halfway there.”

“Okay,” he said, his smile evident through the phone. “When you get somewhere in the vicinity of the ranch, I want you to meet me at my brother's house.”

Gulp.
Your brother's house? You mean, we actually have to introduce other people into our relationship? You mean, there are other people in the world besides us? I'm sorry. I forgot.

“Oh, okay!” I said, enthusiastically, checking my makeup in the rear
view mirror. “Um…how do I get there?” I felt butterflies in my gut.

“Okay, about a mile and a half before my turnoff, you'll see a white gate on the north side of the highway,” he instructed. “You'll need to turn and head down that road a half a mile or so, and his house is right there.”

“Okay…,” I said tentatively.

“Make sense?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, pausing. “But…um…which way is north?”

I was only halfway kidding.

Miraculously, thirty minutes later I found Marlboro Man's brother's house. As I pulled up, I saw Marlboro Man's familiar white pickup parked next to a very large, imposing semi. He and his brother were sitting inside the cab.

Looking up and smiling, Marlboro Man motioned for me to join them. I waved, getting out of my car and obnoxiously taking my purse with me. To add insult to injury, I pressed the button on my keyless entry to lock my doors and turn on my car alarm, not realizing how out of place the dreadful
chirp!chirp!
must have sounded amidst all the bucolic silence. As I made my way toward the monster truck to meet my new love's only brother, I reflected that not only had I never in my life been inside the cab of a semi, but also I wasn't sure I'd ever been within a hundred feet of one. My armpits were suddenly clammy and moist, my body trembling nervously at the prospect of not only meeting Tim but also climbing into a vehicle nine times the size of my Toyota Camry, which, at the time, was the largest car I'd ever owned. I was nervous. What would I do in there?

Marlboro Man opened the passenger door, and I grabbed the large handlebar on the side of the cab, hoisting myself up onto the spiked metal steps of the semi. “Come on in,” he said as he ushered me into the cab. Tim was in the driver's seat. “Ree, this is my brother, Tim.”

Tim was handsome. Rugged. Slightly dusty, as if he'd just finished working. I could see a slight resemblance to Marlboro Man, a familiar
twinkle in his eye. Tim extended his hand, leaving the other on the steering wheel of what I would learn was a brand-spanking-new cattle truck, just hours old. “So, how do you like this vehicle?” Tim asked, smiling widely. He looked like a kid in a candy shop.

“It's nice,” I replied, looking around the cab. There were lots of gauges.

Lots of controls. I wanted to crawl into the back and see what the sleeping quarters were like, and whether there was a TV. Or a Jacuzzi.

“Want to take it for a spin?” Tim asked.

I wanted to appear capable, strong, prepared for anything. “Sure!” I responded, shrugging my shoulders. I got ready to take the wheel.

Marlboro Man chuckled, and Tim remained in his seat, saying, “Oh, maybe you'd better not. You might break a fingernail.” I looked down at my fresh manicure. It was nice of him to notice. “Plus,” he continued, “I don't think you'd be able to shift gears.” Was he making fun of me? My armpits were drenched. Thank God I'd worn black that night.

After ten more minutes of slightly uncomfortable small talk, Marlboro Man saved me by announcing, “Well, I think we'll head out, Slim.”

“Okay, Slim,” Tim replied. “Nice meeting you, Ree.” He flashed his nice, familiar smile. He was definitely cute. He was definitely Marlboro Man's brother.

But he was nothing like the real thing.

Marlboro Man opened the passenger door of the semi and allowed me to climb out in front of him, while Tim exited the driver-side door to see us off.
That wasn't so bad,
I thought as I made my way down the steps. Aside from the manicure remark and my sweating problem, meeting Marlboro Man's brother had gone remarkably well. I looked okay that evening, had managed a couple of witty remarks, and had worn just the right clothing to conceal my nervousness. Life was good.

Then, because the Gods of Embarrassment seemed hell-bent on making me look bad, I lost my balance on the last step, hooking the heel of my stupid black boots on the grate of the step and awkwardly grabbing the
handlebar to save myself from falling to my death onto the gravel driveway below. But though I stopped myself from wiping out, my purse flew off my arm and landed, facedown, on Tim's driveway, violently spilling its contents all over the gravel.

Only a woman can know the dreaded feeling of spilling her purse in the company of men. Suddenly my soul was everywhere, laid bare for Marlboro Man and his brother to see: year-old lip gloss, a leaky pen, wadded gum wrappers, and a hairbrush loaded up with hundreds, if not thousands, of my stringy auburn hairs. And men don't understand wads of long hair—for all they knew, I had some kind of follicular disorder and was going bald. There were no feminine products, but there was a package of dental floss, with a messy, eight-inch piece dangling from the opening and blowing in the wind.

And there were Tic Tacs. Lots and lots of Tic Tacs. Orange ones.

Then there was the money. Loose ones and fives and tens and twenties that had been neatly folded together and tucked into a pocket inside my purse were now blowing wildly around Tim's driveway, swept away by the strengthening wind from an approaching storm.

Nothing in my life could have prepared me for the horror of watching Marlboro Man, my new love, and his brother, Tim, whom I'd just met, chivalrously dart around Tim's driveway, trying valiantly to save my way-ward dollars, all because I couldn't keep my balance on the steps of their shiny new semi.

I left my car at Tim's for the evening, and when we pulled away in Marlboro Man's pickup, I stared out the window, shaking my head and apologizing for being such a colossal dork. When we got to the highway, Marlboro Man glanced at me as he made a right-hand turn. “Yeah,” he said, consoling me. “But you're my dork.”

 

S
OMETIMES MARLBORO
Man and I would venture out into the world—go to the city, see a movie, eat a good meal, be among other humans. But what we did best was stay in together, cooking dinner and washing dishes and retiring to the chairs on his front porch or the couch in his living room, watching action movies and finding new and inventive ways to wrap ourselves in each other's arms so not a centimeter of space existed between us. It was our hobby. And we were good at it.

It was getting more serious. We were getting closer. Each passing day brought deeper feelings, more intense passion, love like I'd never known it before. To be with a man who, despite his obvious masculinity, wasn't at all afraid to reveal his soft, affectionate side, who had no fears or hang-ups about declaring his feelings plainly and often, who, it seemed, had never played a head game in his life…
this
was the romance I was meant to have.

Occasionally, though, after returning to my house at night, I'd lie awake in my own bed, wrestling with the turn my life had taken. Though my feelings for Marlboro Man were never in question, I sometimes wondered where “all this” would lead. We weren't engaged—it was way too soon for that—but how would that even work, anyway? It's not like I could ever live out here. I tried to squint and see through all the blinding passion I felt and envision what such a life would mean. Gravel? Manure? Overalls? Isolation?

Then, almost without fail, just about the time my mind reached full capacity and my what-ifs threatened to disrupt my sleep, my phone would ring again. And it would be Marlboro Man, whose mind was anything but scattered. Who had a thought and acted on it without wasting even a moment calculating the pros and cons and risks and rewards. Who'd whisper words that might as well never have existed before he spoke them: “I miss you already…” “I'm thinking about you…” “I love you….” And then I'd smell his scent in the air and drift right off to Dreamland.

This was the pattern that defined my early days with Marlboro Man. I was so happy, so utterly content—as far as I was concerned, it could have
gone on like that forever. But inevitably, the day would come when reality would appear and shake me violently by the shoulders.

And, as usual, I wasn't the least bit ready for it.

 

M
ARLBORO MAN
lived twenty miles from the nearest town, a small town at that. There was no nightlife to speak of, save a local bar where retired oilfield workers and cowboys gossip and spin yarns over whiskey. His childhood friends were mostly gone, having moved on to larger lives in larger places. But after college he'd wound up back here, back in the same place he'd grown up. Back on the land that, apart from the telephone poles and oil wells, looked the same as it had a hundred years earlier, when his great-great-grandfather had first moved to America from Scotland. It was a quiet, isolated life. But it was where his heart was.

Strangely, I understood. There was something about the prairie. It was so drastically different from the crashing waves of the California coast, or from the rocky cliffs of Laguna, or from the palm trees and the mountains and the sunshine and the smog. It was wide open—not a freeway or high-rise in sight—and it whispered history and serenity. Apart from the horses and cattle, it was scarcely populated, with miles from one cowboy house to the next. Though I'd been away from L.A. for months, its pace and clutter were still so much a part of me, I could sometimes hear it ringing in my ears. I'd still get road rage pulling out of my parents' driveway. I'd still allow an hour for a ten-minute drive.

But five minutes on the prairie, and I'd forget about all of it. My soul would settle, relax, let go. The ranch was so removed from any semblance of society, it was easy to completely forget society even existed, let alone a society brimming with traffic, hustle and bustle, and stress. And stripped of all the noise and pounding distractions that had ruled my life for the
previous seven years, I found it so easy to think clearly, to focus on my growing relationship with Marlboro Man, to take in and reflect on every delicious moment.

Absent all the friends, acquaintances, and party buddies with which I'd surrounded myself in L.A., I quickly grew accustomed to having Marlboro Man all to myself. And with the exception of a few brief meet-and-greet encounters with his brother and my mom, we'd spent hardly any time with other people. I'd loved it. But it wasn't reality.

And it couldn't last forever.

“Come over early tomorrow morning,” Marlboro Man asked over the phone one night. “We're gathering cattle, and I want you to meet my mom and dad.”

“Oh, okay,” I agreed, wondering to myself why we couldn't just remain in our own isolated, romantic world. And the truth was, I wasn't ready to meet his parents yet. I still hadn't successfully divorced myself from California J's dear, dear folks. They'd been so wonderful to me during my years of dating their son and had become the California version of my parents, my home away from home. I hated that our relationship couldn't continue despite, oh, the minor detail of my breaking up with their son. And already? Another set of parents? I wasn't ready.