The Pioneer Woman (3 page)

I
N THE
weeks before Doug's wedding, I'd been slowly sharing with J my concerns about our relationship. Then before the wedding, I'd let him in on my intention to relocate to Chicago. But the fact that I'd always been so available to J during those L.A. days left him completely incapable of grasping that I'd actually do it. I thought my leaving California rather than move to San Francisco with him months earlier would have given him more clarity in this regard, but he'd just considered it a temporary hiccup. As far as J was concerned, it was only a matter of time before I'd be back. And I couldn't blame him. There was a time when I would have been. In the days following my brother's wedding, he'd grown increasingly alarmed that I was, in fact, beginning to step away from him.

He absolutely couldn't believe it.

Meanwhile, I'd been busy spending every single evening with Marlboro Man, my new hot cowboy romance, getting more and more swept off my pedicured feet with each passing day. I'd hardly thought of J once that whole week. Naive on my part, but that's what Marlboro Man did to me: took away my ability to reason.

“I'm coming there tomorrow,” J continued, an uncomfortable edge to his voice.

Oh no. What?

“You're coming
here
tomorrow?” I asked him. “Why?” My voice was cold. I didn't like the way I sounded.

“What do you mean, ‘Why?'” he asked. “I need to talk to you, Ree.”

“Well, we're talking now…,” I replied. “Let's just talk now.” (And hurry, please, because Marlboro Man might call in a sec.)

“It might take a while,” he said.

I looked at my watch. “I thought we'd kind of figured everything out,” I said. “I thought you understood the state of things.”

“The ‘state of things'?” J bit back. “What the hell are you talking about?” This conversation was headed south, fast.

“I don't know what else there is to talk about,” I replied. “I told you…I just think we need to move on.”

“Well, I don't buy that,” he shot back. “And I'm coming so we can talk about it.”

“Wait a second,” I said. “Don't I get a vote here?”

“No, actually you don't,” he continued. “I don't think you really know what you're doing.”

I was sleepy, I was giddy, and I was high on the scent of Marlboro Man's cologne, and I wasn't going to let J buzz-kill me out of it. “J,” I said, mustering up every ounce of directness I could find, “don't come. There'd be no reason for you to come.” I asked him to call me the next day if he wanted, and we said good-bye.

I took a deep breath, feeling wistful and wishing there was some way that relationships, if they had to end, could always end mutually and amicably—not with at least one of the parties feeling hurt and rejected. Then I fell asleep and dreamed the dreams I'd wanted to dream, about Marlboro Man and his boots and his lips and his strong, impossibly masculine embrace. And when my phone rang at seven the next morning, I was never more glad to hear Marlboro Man's voice on the other end. We made plans for that evening, and I gave nary a thought to the fact that California J had just announced the day before that he would be flying to Oklahoma to
see me. Somehow, I thought my saying “don't come” would be sufficient. Now I realize just how formidable someone in the throes of a new love is, whether they're a cheating spouse or a defiant teenager or a flighty city girl in the arms of a cowboy; at that point, I was simply so drunk on the excitement Marlboro Man had brought me, nothing J said—not even “I'm coming tomorrow”—had truly registered.

 

D
ENIAL. IT'S
a powerful animal.

The only thing on my mind the next morning was my date that night with Marlboro Man. It had become my new hobby, my new vocation, my interest in life. Marlboro Man had invited me to his ranch; he said he'd cook dinner this time. I didn't much care what the plans were; I just wanted to see him again. Spend time in his presence. Get to know more about him, to kiss him good night for an hour. Or two. That was the only thing on my mind when I pulled out of my parents' driveway that morning to run a few errands.

When my car suddenly shook from a series of unsettling bumps, I knew something dire had happened. To my horror, when I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw that I'd run over Puggy Sue. Puggy Sue, my fat, prognathic canine who'd settled into my arms the day I'd returned from California and had become, in effect, my child during my time at home, was now lying on my parents' street, squealing, writhing, and unable to move her hind legs.

Hearing Puggy's yelps from inside the house, my mom darted outside, scooped her up, and immediately rushed her to the vet's office. Within thirty minutes, she called to tell me the news to which I'd already started resigning myself: Puggy Sue, my little package of fawn-colored love, was dead.

I spent the next several hours in a fetal position, reeling over the sudden death of Puggy. My brother Mike came over as soon as he heard the news and consoled me for over an hour, affectionately stroking my hair and say
ing, “It's ok-k-k-kay…you c-c-c-can get another pug,” which only made me cry harder.

But when my phone rang around midafternoon, I shot out of bed, ordering Mike not to say a word. Then I took a deep breath, shook off my tears, and said, cheerfully, “Hello?”

It was Marlboro Man, calling to remind me of the complicated directions to his house on the ranch and asking what time I'd be arriving later, as he was growing more impatient by the minute—something, I reflected, that J had never said to me in all the years we'd been together. My stomach fell to the floor and my throat felt tight as I tried to talk to my new man as if nothing was wrong. When I hung up, Mike said, “Wh-wh-wh-who was dat?” I sniffed, wiped my nose, and told him it was a guy.

“Who?” Mike said.

“Some cowboy,” I said. “I'm going to his house tonight.”

“Ooooooh, c-c-c-can I come?” He had a devilish grin on his face.

I told him no, and scram, because I'm getting in the shower. Mike left in a huff.

As I blow-dried my hair in preparation for my date that night, I tried to take my mind off Puggy Sue by planning my wardrobe for the evening: Anne Klein jeans, charcoal gray ribbed turtleneck, and my signature spiky black boots. Perfect for a night at a cowboy's house on the ranch. Before putting on my makeup, I scurried to the kitchen and removed two of the spoons I kept in the freezer at all times. I laid them on my eyes to reduce the swelling—a trick I'd learned from a Brooke Shields book in the mid-1980s. I didn't want to look like someone who'd just spent the day sobbing over a dead family pet.

I began the hour-long drive to his ranch. Marlboro Man had picked me up and driven me home the night before, but I didn't have the heart to ask that of him again, and besides, I loved the drive. The slow transition from residential streets to unpaved county roads both calmed me down and excited me, probably because the man I was growing more crazy about
every day was at the end of that unpaved county road. I wasn't sure how long I—or my wimpy tires—could keep this up.

My Toyota had just crossed the line from my county to his when the jarring ring of my analog car phone sounded. It must be Marlboro Man, I figured, checking on my whereabouts.

“Hello?” I picked up, dripping with romantic expectation.

“Hi,” said the voice. It was J.

“Oh, hi,” I said. I felt my chest fall in disappointment.

“I'm at the airport,” he said.

Deep breath. Look at the prairie. Could this day get any worse? Exhale. “You're at the airport?” I asked.

“I told you I was coming,” he said.

“J, no…seriously…,” I pleaded. This might just do me in. “I told you I didn't think it was a good idea.”

“And I told you I was coming anyway,” he countered.

I answered as clearly and plainly as I could. “Don't get on the plane, J. Don't come. I mean…do you understand what I'm saying? I'm asking you not to come.”

“I'm at
your
airport,” he said. “I'm already here!”

I pulled over on the shoulder of the two-lane highway and pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger, squinting my eyes and trying with all my might to rewind to the part where I picked up my phone so I could convince myself I hadn't. “You're here?” I asked. “You're kidding, right?”

“No, I'm not kidding,” J said. “I'm here. I need to see you.”

I sat there on the quiet shoulder, stunned and deflated at the same time. This wasn't what I'd planned for that evening.

“J…” I paused and thought. “I don't know what to say. I mean, I asked you not to come. I told you it was not a good idea for you to come.” I thought about Puggy Sue. Her soft, velvety ears.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I'm…on my way to see a friend,” I replied.
Please don't ask me any details.

“Well, I think you need to change your plans, don't you?” he asked.

It was a valid question. And sitting there on the side of the highway, watching the sun set in front of me, I had no idea what I should do. On the one hand, I'd been very clear, as clear as I could have been, with J the day before.
Don't come;
I didn't think I'd left any ambiguity. On the other hand, J—a really decent guy under less intense circumstances—had been important to me for a long time and had, after all, traveled 1,800 miles to talk to me in person. Still, I wondered what good could possibly come from my going to see him. We could hardly get through a simple phone conversation without hitting total gridlock; how much better could that possibly be in person, particularly since I was 100 percent sure the relationship, from my perspective, was over? Plus, I'd run over Puggy Sue that day; I just didn't have much emotional fortitude left.

And besides…Marlboro Man was waiting for me.

With that, I pulled off the shoulder of the highway and continued driving west toward the ranch. “J, I'm not coming,” I said. The pause on the other end of the line seemed endless. And the subsequent click from J hanging up on me was so quiet, it was almost deafening.

F
OR THE
remainder of my drive to Marlboro Man's ranch, I waited on pins and needles, expecting the phone to ring again and again and again. I alternated between despair over having watched Puggy struggle and yelp and wince on the street and gnawing regret over breaking up with J on a car phone. I didn't like hearing the desperation in a voice that had always been so laid-back and cool. I didn't enjoy causing another person pain.

I'd deliberately gone about the breakup process slowly, compassionately, gently—taking great care not to hurt the one person who'd meant the most to me during all my years in California. But driving down that lonely highway, I realized the hard way that there was no such thing as gradually breaking someone's heart, no matter how much you think prolonging the process might help. There was always going to have to be The Moment—that instant in which the
break
in
breakup
actually executes, when the knife finally plunges into the gut, when all the plans and hopes that have ever gone in a relationship finally die a violent, bloody death. When the real pain begins.

Was I wrong, I wondered, not to turn around and give J an hour? Or two? But what could possibly come of the face-to-face meeting? Tears? Pleading? A proposal, God forbid? Anything was possible at that point, and I wasn't up for any of it. Right or wrong, I just knew I had to keep driving west toward Marlboro Man. My life with J was over.

My phone remained dead silent until I pulled into the graveled driveway at Marlboro Man's house. Checking my eye makeup in the rearview mirror, I swallowed hard, trying to force away the grapefruit-size lump that had taken up residence in my throat. Then I thought of Puggy again.
Dear Lord,
I thought,
I loved that dog. She doesn't belong in the ground, she belongs on my lap. And her ears belong between my fingers. I loved those velvety ears.

Then I saw the figure standing outside my car door: it was Marlboro Man, who'd come outside to greet me. His jeans were clean, his shirt tucked in and starched. I couldn't yet see his face, though, which was what I wanted most. Getting out of the car, I smiled and looked up, squinting. The western sunset was a backdrop behind his sculpted frame. It was such a beautiful sight, a stark contrast to all the ugliness that had surrounded me that day. He shut the car door behind me and moved in for a hug, which provided all the emotional fuel I needed to continue breathing. Finally, in that instant, I felt like things would be okay.

I smiled and acted cheerful, following him into the kitchen and not at all letting on that my day had sucked about as badly as a day could have sucked. I'd never been one to wear my feelings on my sleeve, and I sure wasn't going to let them splay out on what was merely my sixth date with the sexiest, most masculine man I'd ever met. But I knew I was a goner when Marlboro Man looked at me and asked, “You okay?”

You know when you're not okay, but then someone asks you if you're okay, and you say you're okay and act like you're okay, but then you start realizing you're not okay? Then you feel your nose start to tingle and your throat start to swell and your chin start to quiver and you tell yourself,
In the name of all that is good and holy, do not do this. Do not do this…
but you're powerless to stop it? And you try to blink it away and you finally think you've just about got it under control?

But then the cowboy standing in front of you smiles gently and says, “You sure?”

Those two simple words opened up the Floodgates of Hell. I smiled and
laughed, embarrassed, even as two big, thick tears rolled down both my cheeks. Then I laughed again and blew a nice, clear explosion of snot from my nose. Of all the things that had happened that day, that single moment might have been the worst.

“Oh my gosh, I can't believe I'm doing this,” I insisted as another pair of tears spilled out. I scrambled around the kitchen counter and found a paper towel, using it to dab the salty wetness on my face and the copious slime under my nose. “I am so, so sorry.” I inhaled deeply, my chest beginning to contract and convulse. This was an ugly cry. I was absolutely horrified.

“Hey…what's wrong?” Marlboro Man asked. Bless his heart, he had to have been as uncomfortable as I was. He'd grown up on a cattle ranch, after all, with two brothers,
no
sisters, and a mother who was likely as lacking in histrionics as I wished I was at that moment. He led a quiet life out here on the ranch, isolated from the drama of city life. Judging from what he'd told me so far, he hadn't invited many women over to his house for dinner. And now he had one blubbering uncontrollably in his kitchen.
I'd better hurry up and enjoy this evening
, I told myself.
He won't be inviting me to any more dinners after this.
I blew my nose on the paper towel. I wanted to go hide in the bathroom.

Then he took my arm, in a much softer grip than the one he'd used on our first date when he'd kept me from biting the dust. “No, c'mon,” he said, pulling me closer to him and securing his arms around my waist. I died a thousand deaths as he whispered softly, “What's wrong?”

What could I possibly say?
Oh, nothing, it's just that I've been slowly breaking up with my boyfriend from California and I uninvited him to my brother's wedding last week and I thought everything was fine and then he called last night after I got home from cooking you that Linguine with Clam Sauce you loved so much and he said he was flying here today and I told him not to because there really wasn't anything else we could possibly talk about and I thought he understood and while I was driving out here just now he called me and it just so happens
he's at the airport right now but I decided not to go because I didn't want to have a big emotional drama
(you mean like the one you're playing out in Marlboro Man's kitchen right now?)
and I'm finding myself vacillating between sadness over the end of our four-year relationship, regret over not going to see him in person, and confusion over how to feel about my upcoming move to Chicago. And where that will leave you and me, you big hunk of burning love.

“I ran over my dog today!” I blubbered and collapsed into another heap of impossible-to-corral tears. Marlboro Man was embracing me tightly now, knowing full well that his arms were the only offering he had for me at that moment. My face was buried in his neck and I continued to laugh, belting out an occasional “I'm sorry” between my sobs, hoping in vain that the laughter would eventually prevail. I wanted to continue, to tell him about J, to give him the complete story behind my unexpected outburst. But “I ran over my dog” was all I could muster. It was the easier thing to explain. Marlboro Man could understand that, wrap his brain around it. But the uninvited surfer newly-ex-boyfriend dangling at the airport? It was a little more information than I had the strength to share that night.

He continued holding me in his kitchen until my chest stopped heaving and the wellspring of snot began to dry. I opened my eyes and found I was in a different country altogether, The Land of His Embrace. It was a peaceful, restful, safe place.

Marlboro Man gave me one last comforting hug before our bodies finally separated, and he casually leaned against the counter. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better,” he said, “I've run over so many damn dogs out here, I can't even begin to count them.”

It was a much-needed—if unlikely—moment of perspective for me.

 

W
E SHARED
a Marlboro Man–prepared meal of rib eye steaks, baked potatoes, and corn. I'd been a vegetarian for seven
years before returning home to Oklahoma and hadn't touched a speck of beef to my lips in ages, which made my first bite of the rib eye that much more life-altering. The stress of the day had melted away in Marlboro Man's arms, and now that same man had just rescued me forever from a life without beef. Whatever happened between the cowboy and me, I told myself, I never wanted to be without steak again.

We did the dishes and talked—about the cattle business, about my job back in L.A., about his local small town, about family. Then we adjourned to the sofa to watch an action movie, pausing occasionally to remind each other once again of the reason God invented lips. Curiously, though, while sexy and smoldering, Marlboro Man kept his heavy breathing to a minimum. This surprised me. He was not only masculine and manly, he lived in the middle of nowhere—one might expect that because of the dearth of women within a twenty-mile range, he'd be more susceptible than most to getting lost in a heated moment. But he wasn't. He was a gentleman through and through—a sizzling specimen of a gentleman who was singlehandedly introducing me to a whole new universe of animal attraction, but a gentleman, nonetheless. And though my mercury was rising rapidly, his didn't seem to be in any hurry.

He walked me to my car as the final credits rolled, offering to follow me all the way home if I wanted. “Oh, no,” I said. “I can get home, no problem.” I'd lived in L.A. for years; it's not like driving alone at night bothered me. I started my car and watched him walk back toward his front door, admiring every last thing about him. He turned around and waved, and as he walked inside I felt, more than ever, that I was in big trouble. What was I doing? Why was I here? I was getting ready to move to Chicago—home of the Cubs and Michigan Avenue and the Elevated Train. Why had I allowed myself to stick my toe in this water?

And why did the water have to feel so, so good?

I pulled out of Marlboro Man's gravel driveway and turned right, onto the dirt road. Taking in a deep breath and preparing myself for the
quiet drive ahead, my thoughts turned suddenly to J. God only knew where he was at that point. I wouldn't have known if he'd tried to call all evening; in the mid-1990s there was no “missed call” feature on car phones. Neither would I have known whether J had made a surprise visit to my parents' house with a chain saw or an ax, as they'd left town that evening for a trip…but then, J never really was the chain saw type.

Winding around the dusty county road in the pitch-black of night, I found myself equal parts content and unsettled—a strange combination brought on by the events of the day—and I began thinking about my move to Chicago and my plans to pursue law school. Was this the right choice? Was it a fit? Or was it just a neat and tidy plan, something concrete and objective? The easy road? An escape from creativity? An escape from risk?

The loud ring of my car phone disrupted my introspection. Startled, I picked up the phone, certain it would be J calling from the airport after, probably, persistently calling all night.
Another phone confrontation
. But at least this time I'd be ready. I'd just had a four-hour dose of Marlboro Man. I could handle anything.

“Hello?” I said, readying myself.

“Hey, you,” the voice said. The voice. That voice. The one that had infiltrated my dreams.

It was Marlboro Man, calling to say he missed me, a mere five minutes after I'd pulled away from his house. And his words weren't scripted or canned, like the obligatory roses sent after a date. They were impulsive, spur-of-the-moment—the words of a man who'd had a thought and acted on it within seconds. A man who, in his busy life on the ranch, had neither the time nor the inclination to wait to call a girl or play it cool. A man who liked a woman and called her just as she left his house, simply to tell her he wished she hadn't.

“I miss you, too,” I said, though words like that were difficult for me. I'd conditioned myself to steer clear of them after so many years with J,
whose phlegmatic nature had bled over into almost every other aspect of his life. He was not affectionate, and in the four-plus years I'd known him, I couldn't recall one time he'd called me after a date to say he missed me. Even after I'd left California months earlier, his calls had come every three or four days, sometimes less frequently than that. And while I'd never considered myself a needy sort of gal, the complete dearth of verbal affirmation from J had eventually become paradoxically loud.

I hung up the phone after saying good night to Marlboro Man, this isolated cowboy who hadn't had the slightest problem picking up the phone to say “I miss you.” I shuddered at the thought of how long I'd gone without it. And judging from the electrical charges searing through every cell of my body, I realized just how fundamental a human need it really is.

It was as fundamental a human need, I would learn, as having a sense of direction in the dark. I suddenly realized I was lost on the long dirt road, more lost than I'd ever been before. The more twists and turns I took in my attempt to find my bearings, the worse my situation became. It was almost midnight, and it was cold, and each intersection looked like the same one repeating over and over. I found myself struck with an illogical and indescribable panic—the kind that causes you to truly believe you'll never, ever escape from where you are, even though you almost always will. As I drove, I remembered every horror movie I'd ever watched that had taken place in a rural setting.
Children of the Corn
. The children of the corn were lurking out there in the tall grass, I just knew it.
Friday the 13th
. Sure, it had taken place at a summer camp, but the same thing could happen on a cattle ranch. And
The Texas Chain Saw Massacre
? Oh no. I was dead. Leatherface was coming—or even worse, his freaky, emaciated, misanthropic brother.

I kept driving for a while, then stopped on the side of the road. Shining my brights on the road in front of me, I watched out for Leatherface while dialing Marlboro Man on my car phone. My pulse was rapid out of sheer terror and embarrassment; my face was hot. Lost and helpless on a county road the same night I'd emotionally decompensated in his kitchen—this
was not exactly the image I was dying to project to this new man in my life. But I had no other option, short of continuing to drive aimlessly down one generic road after another or parking on the side of the road and going to sleep, which really wasn't an option at all, considering Norman Bates was likely wandering around the area. With Ted Bundy. And Charles Manson. And Grendel.