The Pioneer Woman by Ree Drummond Page B

I’d ever understood about the textbook definition of lust, but everything I’d ever dreamed about in a man. He was a specimen—tall, strong, masculine, quiet. But it was much more than that. He was honest. Real. And affectionate and accessible, quite unlike J and most of the men I’d casually dated since I’d returned home from Los Angeles months earlier. I was in a foreign land. I didn’t know what to do.
    I love you. He’d said it. And I knew his words had been sincere. I knew, because I felt it, too, even though I couldn’t say it. Marlboro Man continued to hold me tightly on that patio chair, undeterred by my silence, likely resting easily in the knowledge that at least he’d been able to say what he felt.
    â€œI’d better go home,” I whispered, suddenly feeling pulled away by some imaginary force. Marlboro Man nodded, helping me to my feet. Holding hands, we walked around his house to my car, where we stopped for a final hug and a kiss or two. Or eight. “Thanks for having me over,” I managed.
    Man, I was smooth.
    â€œAny time,” he replied, locking his arms around my waist during the final kiss. This was the stuff that dreams were made of. I was glad my eyes were closed, because they were rolled all the way into the back of my head. It wouldn’t have been an attractive sight.
    He opened the door to my car, and I climbed inside. As I backed out of his driveway, he walked toward his front door and turned around, giving me his characteristic wave in his characteristic Wranglers. Driving away, I felt strange, flushed, tingly. Burdened. Confused. Tortured. Thirty minutes into my drive home, he called. I’d almost grown to need it.
    â€œHey,” he said. His voice. Help me.
    â€œOh, hi,” I replied, pretending to be surprised. Even though I wasn’t.
    â€œHey, I…,” Marlboro Man began. “I really don’t want you to go.”
    I giggled. How cute. “Well…I’m already halfway home!” I replied, a playful lilt to my voice.
    A long pause followed.
    Then, his voice serious, he continued, “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
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    H E MEANT business; I could hear it in his voice.
    Marlboro Man was talking about Chicago, about my imminent move. I’d told him my plans the first time we’d ever spoken on the phone, and he’d mentioned it once or twice during our two wonderful weeks together. But the more time we’d spent together, the less it had come up. Leaving was the last thing I wanted to talk about while I was with him.
    I couldn’t respond. I had no idea what to say.
    â€œYou there?” Marlboro Man asked.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “I’m here.” That was all I could manage.
    â€œWell…I just wanted to say good night,” he said quietly.
    â€œI’m glad you did,” I replied. I was an idiot.
    â€œGood night,” he whispered.
    â€œGood night.”
    I woke up the next morning with puffy, swollen eyes. I’d slept like a rock, having dreamed about Marlboro Man all night long. They’d been vivid dreams, crazy dreams, dreams of us talking and playing chess and shooting each other with Silly String. He’d already become such a permanent fixture in my consciousness, I dreamed about him nightly…effortlessly.
    We went to dinner that night and ordered steak and talked our usual dreamy talk, intentionally avoiding the larger, looming subject. When he brought me home, it was late, and the air was so perfect that I was unawareof the temperature. We stood outside my parents’ house, the same place we’d stood two weeks earlier, before the Linguine with Clam Sauce and J’s surprise visit; before the overcooked flank steak and my realization that I was hopelessly in love. The same place I’d almost wiped out on the sidewalk; the same place he’d kissed me for the first time and set my heart afire.
    Marlboro