To All the Cowboys I've Loved Before

by D. R. Graham

  BJ pats my back in a consolatory way. “We try to keep Chuck and Janine separated in public. Otherwise it can get ugly.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  BJ and Easton both chuckle. “It’s going to be an interesting night.” BJ raises his glass to toast us. “I’m going to go ask a pretty girl to dance. You all have fun.”

  After BJ disappears into the crowd, Easton raises his beer bottle to tap my Perrier bottle. “It was nice of you to invite Janine over, although Chuck might not see it that way.”

  “I was trying to make friends with her. But I don’t want Chuck to be mad at me for bringing her around. I have to live with him, so it’s more important that he likes me. I was already not his favorite person.”

  “Chuck basically only likes himself. I wouldn’t spend too much time worried about what he thinks about anybody if I were you.”

  I sigh. I want to get along with him. It’s going to be difficult, though, if he’s as selfish and mean as he seems. BJ and Easton seem like decent guys. Chuck must have some redeeming qualities or else they wouldn’t be friends with him. Maybe they aren’t close. “Do you consider Chuck a friend?”

  Easton ponders the question for a few seconds. “He’d have my back if I needed him. I guess that’s all that matters.”

  “Would you confide in him?”

  “No, but I don’t confide in anyone.”

  “Really?” I glance over at Chuck and Janine who are dancing precariously close to the longhorn. She’s really good at the two-step. Not just the walking to music type that BJ taught me, but the spin around and lift your arms over each other’s head type. “If you don’t confide in anyone, what do you do when you’re angry or sad?”

  “I try not to let things bother me. Especially things I can’t control.”

  “But you must still feel angry if someone is a jerk or something is unfair?”

  His shoulder shrugs just enough to acknowledge that it’s true at least some of the time. “It’s rare that something gets to me, but when it does I just go for a ride. Horses always make you feel better without ever judging you or telling everybody else about your private business. And they don’t expect anything in return.”

  “So, if I can channel a stallion vibe, you and I will get along just fine?”

  He takes a slow sip from his beer and appears to be hiding a smile.

  “What? Why is that funny?”

  Eventually he cracks and laughs. “A stallion is a male horse—one that’s not castrated.”

  I point at him with both of my index fingers as a challenge. “I could be a horse with testes if I want to be.”

  He buckles over, laughing even harder, and it takes him a few seconds to recover. He shakes his head as if he can’t believe how weird I am. “Sure. Why not? You can be a stallion if you want, but I’m sure you and I will get along just fine without you being a horse. If you were a horse, though, you’d probably be an Orlov Trotter with a star-speckled coat.”

  “What’s an Orlov Trotter, a pony with stumpy legs?”

  “No.” He glances at my legs as if he hadn’t noticed before that they are disproportionately short for my body. “It’s a Russian horse. It’s one of the most beautiful breeds in the world.”

  Oh. Is that his way of saying he thinks I’m beautiful? I don’t know how to react to that. Maybe he was joking. Maybe it’s really a pygmy horse used in circuses. What if it actually is a beautiful Russian horse? Does he say things like that to all girls? Those other girls were acting like he’d maybe said something nice like that to them at some point. When a person makes you feel good about yourself it’s addictive. There are probably Easton junkies all over California. What if he wasn’t joking? I’ve never had anybody say anything quite that flattering to me before. Too much time has passed. He’s going to wonder why I’ve suddenly become mute. Say something, Della. “Do you want to dance?”

  His expression remains motionless as his brain adjusts to my random shift in gears. He’s also taking too long to respond. Obviously it’s a no and he’s attempting to come up with a way to let me down easy. Ouch. Okay, apparently I read too much into the Russian horse compliment. He was just being friendly and talking to me because I don’t know anyone here. The nice conversation wasn’t supposed to be a gateway into close contact such as dancing. Or anything else. Message received. Is that what the rejection feels like to guys when I turn down their invitation to dance with them? If I knew it felt like a shank to the gut I would have maybe said yes to some of them, or at least said no with more sensitivity. I should ask a horse person what an Orlov Trotter is. It’s probably a stumpy donkey. Why hasn’t he answered yet? He watches my expression as my thoughts rocket through my brain at warp speed.

  Eventually, he smiles and says, “I don’t two-step.”

  “Me neither, technically. I don’t even know why I asked. Sorry.”

  “I do dance, just not the two-step. We can slow dance at the end of the night if you want to?”

  Really? Yeah. Ok. Awesome. Cool. Yay. The compliment combined with the promise to slow dance later have rendered me speechless, so I just nod and then drink out of my already empty Perrier bottle. When Chuck and Janine return from dancing he carries on to the bar as if he needs a break, or a shot. Easton excuses himself, too. Janine slides in next to me, looking happy.

  “You’re a great dancer,” I say. “And Chuck is surprisingly graceful, too.”

  “Thanks. And yeah, Chuck has a lot of good qualities. If it wasn’t for his personality he’d be a great guy. But he’s no Havie. And just so you know, I’ve never seen Havie smile as much as he’s been smiling tonight. The way he looks at you just makes my heart melt. I’m secretly jealous. Probably every woman in here wishes she were you.”

  Janine leans her elbow on the table and arches her back like a sexy pinup girl, which makes it more obvious that I’m standing here looking like a sixth grader at her first boy-girl party. I discretely glance around to see if I can figure out which one might be Havie. I’ve been so engaged in conversation with Easton I didn’t even notice anyone else.

  “Honestly,” Janine continues, “I was concerned about Chuck having a beautiful female roommate. But since Havie has his eye on you it guarantees Chuck will steer clear. They would never compete for the same girl, and Havie definitely has dibs if you’re interested, which you should be. Unless you’re crazy.”

  I’m just about to ask her which one is Havie when Easton returns. Janine squeezes my arm and then leaves to go join Chuck at the bar.

  Easton hands me a Perrier bottle.

  “Thank you.”

  He nods and steps closer so we don’t have to shout over the sound of the band who has started to play again.

  “Do you know someone named Havie?”

  He chuckles. “Yes. Why?”

  I shake my head to downplay it. “Janine said something about him. I was just wondering who he is.”

  “Me.”

  The shock stuns me, and it takes at least five blinks to recover enough to say, “What?”

  He leans in and speaks louder because he thought I just didn’t hear him properly. “Havie’s my nickname. It’s short for Mojave.”

  I heard him the first time. My brain just couldn’t process the information. My heart shifts into a dangerously fast rhythm as the development sinks in. Now, in addition to the content of the message I am also struck by the fact that his lips were in close proximity to my ear. Everley. Easton. Havie. How am I supposed to keep all his aliases straight? Janine said the way he looks at me makes her heart melt. Easton like-likes me?

  Holy shiiiiish kabob.

  I need to sit down.

  Chapter 8

  Easton

  Chuckie started doing shots after Janine showed up. Now he’s too drunk to drive home. BJ’s also gooned. I’ve had four beers, which is probably under the limit, but I don’t drink and drive. Hopefully Della doesn’t mind being the designated driver. “You okay to drive us home?”

 
; She looks over at Chuck’s Ram Longhorn edition pickup and inhales stressfully. “It’s so huge.”

  “That’s what she said!” Chuckie shouts and then stumbles as he laughs at his own joke.

  “Ignore him,” I say and shove him into the back of the cab. Janine and BJ stumble in the back after him. “Don’t worry, Della. It drives like a car. I’ll sit in the front and navigate for you.”

  She presses her lips together as if she’s weighing her options. Finally, she nods to accept the challenge. I hand her the keys and she walks around to climb in the driver’s side. Shit, she looks so tiny behind the wheel. Maybe it is too big for her to handle. I take my hat off and hop in the cab.

  “Treat her like a lover, Della,” Chuck says from the back seat. “She likes to be caressed with a gentle touch. All of my women do.” He pulls Janine close, trying to make out with her.

  “All of your women,” Janine snaps and jams the heel of her hand into his chest.

  “Both my women. I meant both. You and Muriel.” He squeezes his arm around her neck and pulls her in. “I’ve never sat in Muriel’s backseat. Let’s break it in, babe.”

  BJ groans and removes his hat to lean his head against the side window. “Gross, y’all. I’m sitting right here. Wait until we get home.”

  Della presses the start button and then glances at me as the engine roars to life. She clenches her eyes shut for a second, either praying or conjuring some bravery, I’m not sure which.

  “What type of music do you find relaxing?” I ask.

  “Classical,” she says.

  Chuck pretends to gag. “Muriel only plays country music and eighties metal. She’ll break down on the side of the road if you play Beethoven.”

  “Silence is fine, too,” Della adds as she shifts into reverse and shoulder checks about twenty times. “I can’t see anything behind me.”

  “Use the side mirrors.” I find a classical music station and turn the volume low to calm her down.

  She turns out of the parking lot onto the street and clips the curb, which drops the back end. “Oops. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. Alignment is overrated,” Chuck mumbles. Then he slides to lean on the door and Janine lays her head on his lap. Hopefully they’ll fall asleep.

  Unfazed by the curb drop, BJ is already passed out and breathing heavy. I point to the exit for the highway. “Take the northbound ramp.”

  Della signals and then grips the steering wheel at ten and two. It’s probably a good thing she has to focus so intently on the road. Otherwise she might notice how jacked I still am from dancing the last song with her. It was only one song, but since something is definitely going on between us, I felt like a sweaty-palmed freshman at a high school dance. She was worried about messing up a step, so we stood still and hugged while swaying to the music. I can almost feel the warmth of her body leaning up against mine.

  She makes me smile without even trying. She’s refreshingly real. Honest almost to a fault, which I appreciate. She’s been holding her own with Chuck despite his best efforts to offend. Every guy in the bar was giving her the eye. And her skin is so damn soft I can’t stop imagining what it would feel like if her entire body was draped over me like a silk sheet. I don’t know whether to thank her cousin for sending her over to the house or curse him.

  Once we’re on the highway, she relaxes and sneaks a glance in my direction. “What was the name of that song we danced to? Do you know?”

  I definitely know it. It’s always been one of my favorites, and now it’s going to remind me of Della every time I hear it for the rest of my life. “Tennessee Whiskey.”

  She points at her purse on the console. “Do you mind grabbing my phone and downloading it for me. I liked it.”

  “Are you sure you want me to go through your purse? Isn’t that sort of taboo?”

  “Why? Are you afraid you’re going to come across a tampon or something?”

  I gesture with my hand in an angle towards the windshield to make sure she stays right at the highway exchange. “I don’t know what women keep in their purses. I was just taught not to go through one.”

  “I give you permission. And don’t worry. All you’ll find is my phone. Some cash. The key to the house. And a lip balm. Sorry for being boring.” She releases the steering wheel with her right hand only long enough to toss the purse onto my lap. “The password is my birthday month and day. 0605.”

  “You’re not boring.” I check over my shoulder. They’re all asleep in the backseat. “And you shouldn’t say your password out loud in front of these guys. Do you have any idea what pranks they’ll pull on someone who has an unlocked phone?”

  “They’re asleep. And I trust you.”

  Our eyes meet briefly. Normally, it would seem strange for someone to say they trust a person they had just met, but it doesn’t feel like we just met, and there is nothing normal about what’s happening between us. I unzip the purse and slide the phone out. The 5th of June. I commit that to memory and unlock the screen. “There’s a message from your dad here.” I turn the phone upside down on my thigh, so I won’t be tempted to read it.

  “What’s it say?”

  “I don’t want to read it. What if it’s private?”

  She signals to change lanes and pass a slow-moving car. “It likely says something like,” she lowers her voice to a deeper register in an attempt to sound like her dad, “Send me your new address immediately or I will have my lawyer contact the registrar’s office.”

  He sounds like an asshole. I flip the phone over and read the message out loud; “Sweetheart, I’m worried about how you are doing. Please call so I can hear your voice and know you are all right. We love you and miss you already. Please stay safe.”

  Her posture sinks slightly as she sighs.

  “Why haven’t you called him?”

  “It’s complicated.” She removes the hat I gave her and places it on the console between us. “I left my mom a message. Maybe they didn’t get it.”

  I wait to see if she wants to elaborate, but she doesn’t say more, so I open her music to buy Tennessee Whiskey. “I need your account password, too. Do you trust me with that? I might buy hundreds of songs and a year’s worth of movies with it.”

  “It’s Tabitha. That’s my niece’s name.”

  I open the account and download the song. “You’re an aunt? How old is she?”

  “Fourteen months. She’s so adorable.” She points at her phone in my hand. “There are pictures of her on the photo stream. You can look if you want.”

  I open her photos, and the first one that pops up is a picture of me fully extended on my ride today. She caught the buck at exactly the right moment. The next photo is of me loading into the chute. There are a few of the other guys and the last one is a professional looking shot of me taping my glove to my wrist. She added a filter on it that makes it look gritty and cowboy tough. I glance at her and her eyes shift away from the road for a second to meet my gaze. “These are really good. You’re talented.”

  “Thanks.” Her cheeks turn rosy and she concentrates back on the road. “Photography is one of my hobbies. And you are a model, so it kind of makes the picture taking part easy. I’ll have to ask my mom to send my nice camera down, so I can take some high-quality shots for you guys. The phone camera can’t really do the action shots justice.”

  “They look good to me.” I keep scrolling until I get to the shots of her niece. She is cute. And the way Della is smiling in the last shot makes my breath catch in my throat. What the hell is wrong with me? I don’t understand what’s going on. I’ve been dating since I was thirteen, hooking up since I was fifteen, and I was even in love once when I was seventeen, but I’ve never felt like this before. Shit. It’s crazy, but even if I could stop it, I don’t think I want to. I check over my shoulder, worried that everyone in the truck can tell I’m falling hard for Della.

  “Congratulations again,” she says. “You rode so well today. Do you know what you did differently? If yo
u can figure it out maybe you can replicate it for the next rodeo. Oh!” she gasps and excitedly taps the steering wheel with her palm. “You know what it probably was? Your new suitcase handle. It must be a good one. Based on how many guys fell off before the eight seconds, I assume it’s probably not that easy to repeat something like what you did today, but if the secret is the gear, you’ll be riding like that every time. You seemed so in the zone. That’s what they call it when an athlete performs optimally, right?”

  “Yeah. I was in the zone.” But I’m positive it had nothing to do with the new rigging. I roll the window down a crack for oxygen. Good thing I won today. I’m definitely going to owe those guys a thousand bucks if her feelings are mutual. It seems like she is at least attracted to me, but she’s not the type to sleep around casually, and she might consider a serious relationship too much of a distraction from school. I’m going to be out for the count if she turns me down, but it will also be torture to be around her if I deny my feelings. I’m not sure how to handle the situation. “Merge left. You can stay in the carpool lane for the rest of the way.” I exhale, hoping I sound normal. I don’t feel normal. I’m wrecked already and I haven’t even kissed her. Maybe I never will. I want to. I shouldn’t. This is bad.

  “Do you mind the nickname Havie?”

  “No. Why?”

  She shrugs and then shakes her head, flustered, as if she wants to backpedal. “I don’t know. I was just wondering since you said it was short for Mojave. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a nickname you considered disrespectful or derogatory.”

  “Calling me Mojave isn’t an insult. I’m proud of who I am.”

  “Yeah, of course. I didn’t mean to insinuate that it was a demeaning term.” She blinks hard, almost wincing, and grips the steering wheel as if she wishes she could erase the entire conversation. “Sorry. I don’t think you should be ashamed to be identified by your heritage. I just like to check with people to confirm what they prefer to be called. Because in high school, I became friends with a girl named Tootie. I thought it was her real name. Even the teachers called her Tootie. And I went around introducing her to everyone, including my parents, as Tootie. And like six months later she broke down in tears and told me her name is actually Elizabeth. Being dubbed Tootie all started in elementary school after she accidentally farted during a presentation in front of the entire school. Breaking wind was embarrassing enough. Then the nickname stuck all the way to college, which was mortifying, and she didn’t know how to make it stop. So anyway, if you ever meet my good friend Beth, don’t let on that you know she’s the infamous Tootie.”