The Pioneer Woman (9 page)

My dad gave me a brief rundown of the situation, then I walked slowly up the stairs, remnants of my soul dragging behind me. I felt gutted. My face still tingled as I entered my bedroom and pulled off my clothes—clothes dusty and grimy from my glorious day of working cattle with Marlboro Man and his parents. As I showered, I reflected on the turn my day had just taken: I'd felt so great that night when my love had brought me home—so elated, so in love, so full. Just an hour earlier, in Marlboro Man's pickup, I'd rattled on about how nice it was that both our parents' marriages were still intact. It was all nonsense now. I'd worn that label like a badge, that pride of being one of the minority of twenty-somethings whose parents' marriage was still going strong, whose family's foundation hadn't been shaken
by divorce. And just now, in the blink of an eye, all my illusions of a stable, perfect home life had been shattered. And though I'd always been a lifelong optimist, a glass-is-half-full type, a Suzy Sunshine Supreme, I also had enough weathered L.A. girl in me to know that my dad was deadly serious. And that this didn't look good at all.

I flopped onto my bed facedown, utterly deflated. Oh, what a beautiful day I'd had: meeting Marlboro Man's parents. Getting to know his mom. Nearly killing her on a ninety-degree turn in my Toyota Camry. Laughing with her. Seeing so much of Marlboro Man in her smile. Messing up my car. Leaving it all askew in the ditch on a rural county road. Embarrassing myself, but being okay with that. Talking with Marlboro Man as he chivalrously drove me all the way back to my house. Falling more in love with him with each mile we drove, with each sexy grin he flashed. But now—good God, what was the point? Love obviously didn't last forever—it couldn't possibly. Not when two people in their fifties, married thirty years, four children, two dogs, and a lifetime of memories, couldn't even keep it together. What was I doing? Why was I even bothering with this romance thing…this love thing? Where would it even lead? An uncharacteristic hopelessness suddenly flooded my insides, filling me with doom and dread. Reality, ugly and raw, grabbed me around the neck and began to squeeze.

As I lay in bed and looked at the innumerable stars outside my bedroom window, I tried to make sense of it all, even as my tired eyes bled painful, salty tears. Then, as had become customary, my phone began to ring. I knew who it was, of course. It was Marlboro Man, the source of so much joy that at times I could hardly handle it. He was calling to torture me with his strong, yet whispery, voice. He was calling to say good night. I'd come to expect his postdate phone calls; I drank them in like a potion, inhaled them like a powerful, mellowing drug. I'd become totally and completely addicted.

But that night, instead of jumping up and darting to the phone like a
lovesick schoolgirl, I rolled away and pulled the comforter farther over my head, trying my best to drown out the ringing. After four rings, the phone stopped, leaving me in the dark, depressing silence of my room—the same room in which I'd grown up. Tears of pain and confusion dampened my pillow as everything I'd ever understood about stability and commitment melted away. And for the first time in weeks—for the first time since Marlboro Man and I shared our first beautiful kiss—love was suddenly the last thing I wanted.

F
EELING AWFUL,
I dragged myself out of bed the next morning. My stomach felt hollow; I was a child lost in the woods. Over-night, I'd been excommunicated from my exalted position in the Church of the Stable Home, and I was ill-prepared to handle it.

I couldn't even bring myself to think about Marlboro Man, to find the emotional energy to escape to my normally vivid and delicious daydreams of him. I was weighted down, suddenly unsure of where I stood with anything. I'd never been one to look forward to marriage, to sharing my life with someone forever; I'd always lived way too much in the moment to think that far ahead, and besides, I just hadn't had the kind of relationships that had given me cause not to be cynical about love. But Marlboro Man had changed that. While we hadn't yet talked of marriage, he was the first man I'd ever been with who filled my thoughts twenty-four hours a day; who, four seconds after dropping me off at night, I longed to be with again; who I couldn't imagine ever being without.

But now, that morning, my cynicism had crept back in. I was back to feeling like it was all a foolish pipe dream, this idea of finding the one true love of one's life. Sure, I was in love with Marlboro Man
now,
but where might we be in five years? Fifteen years? Thirty? Right where my parents
are, I supposed—struggling with dead love and apathy and ambivalence. After all, they'd been in love once, too.

“Mom, what's going on?” I asked after walking downstairs. She was scurrying around the kitchen, clearly on her way out the door.

“Oh, I'm going to go get ready for the soup kitchen,” she said. “I've gotta run, sweetie….”

“Mom,” I said, more assertively. “What's going on with you and Dad?” My face tingled as I spoke. I still couldn't believe what I'd heard the night before.

“Sweetie,” my mom repeated. “We can talk about it later….”

“Well, I mean…,” I began. I couldn't figure out what to say. “What's the problem?”

“It's…it's too complicated to go into right now,” she answered, acting busier as she went about her business in the kitchen. “We can talk about it some other time.”

She clearly wasn't in the mood to share. Within minutes, she was pulling out of the driveway, leaving her older daughter behind to wallow around in her parents' empty house. I shivered; a cold air had moved into our once-warm home.

I made myself a scrambled egg and sat on the back porch in my pajamas, looking out at the seventh fairway. It was a beautiful summer morning—cool, quiet, serene. A stark contrast to the chaos erupting in my soul. I wouldn't be able to stay here—it was all different now. I was no longer the Prodigal Daughter lovingly welcomed home after a long stint of unrighteous living in Los Angeles. I was now the Intruder—barging in on my parents' lives at the most inopportune time. I'd have to get my own place somewhere to give my parents their space. But where? Not here, in my hometown; that would make no sense. I wished I was back in Los Angeles. Chicago. Somewhere anonymous. Anywhere but home.

I needed air. The golf course looked inviting. Throwing on my favorite black Gap leggings, a USC tank, and tennis shoes, I took off on a brisk
walk, using the cart path as my guide. I loved walking on the golf course; it looked and smelled just as it did when I was a little girl. I began on the seventh fairway, the same fairway I'd always crossed to get to the clubhouse so I could order Shirley Temples to go, and before long I was near the eighth green, which was situated near a busy residential intersection. The horn of a passing black Cadillac sounded; a friend of my parents smiled and waved. I waved back, wondering if she knew of my parents' marital problems, wondering if anyone did. My parents had always been “one of those couples”—not just to me but to an entire community. They were, simply, the Smiths, the king and queen of Suburban Stability, Success, and Bliss. If the worst happened, if they were unable to resolve their conflict and wound up divorcing, I wasn't sure the town would survive the shock.

I headed west and broke into a jog. I'd always hated jogging. Not that I could ever be confused with Dolly Parton, but running had always hurt my chest. It was jarring. Bouncy. Disruptive. Also, as a lifelong ballerina, running was something that always had to be done with turned-out feet, pointed toes, and long, lanky, outstretched arms resembling those of swans. I looked bad—really bad—whenever I tried to run like an athlete. I looked like a psychotic stork…but that morning, I didn't care. My jog turned into a run, and soon became a sprint, and before I knew it I was running like I'd never run before. I ran hard and fast, the pain of my panting lungs masking the sadness over my parents' marital woes. And when I finally arrived at the eighteenth hole, I stopped for a rest.

Glorious, cleansing sweat trickled down my back, and my face and torso burned like a furnace. I bent over, propping my hands on my knees, gasping for breath. I stood at the top of a huge hill—the hill on the eighteenth hole. It was an ideal hill for sledding in the wintertime, and on heavy snow days it was peppered with country club kids and their adventure-seeking parents, sliding down the hill at lightning speed and trudging back up to the top for another go. Standing there on that hot summer morning, I could almost see my dad pushing my brothers on the red plastic disc, the
one with thick rope handles, and could hear my mom giggling and screaming wildly as she gave my sister and me a healthy shove on our toboggan. We were a happy family, weren't we? I hadn't imagined it, had I?

The run had helped. My body felt renewed, refreshed, even if my thinking was a little off balance. I walked slowly back home, breathing deeply and taking in all the sights and sounds of a private country club golf course: the beeping of a distant golf cart driving in reverse, the barking of the bird dogs Dr. Burris took hunting with him every fall and winter, millions of tiny birds in triumphant song. It was the closest thing to the country that I'd known until now.

And my thoughts turned to Marlboro Man.

I was thinking of him when I walked back into the house, imagining his gorgeous voice in my ear when I heard the phone ringing in my room. I ran up the stairs, skipping three steps at a time, and answered the phone, breathless.

“Hello?” I gasped.

“Hey there,” Marlboro Man said. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I just went for a run on the golf course,” I answered. As if I did it every day.

“Well, I just want you to know I'm coming to get you at five,” he said. “I'm having Ree withdrawals.”

“You mean since
midnight,
when we last saw each other?” I joked. Actually, I knew exactly what he meant.

“Yeah,” he said. “That's way, way too long, and I'm not gonna put up with it anymore.” I loved it when he took charge.

“Okay, then—fine,” I said, surrendering. “I don't want to argue. I'll see you at five.”

 

M
ARLBORO MAN
showed up five minutes early, before my second coat of mascara had a chance to dry. He looked gorgeous
standing at the front door, his strong, tan arms looking like sculpted masterpieces in his charcoal gray polo shirt. He moved in for a hug, holding me close for a minute and rubbing his hand on my back.

Climbing into his pickup, we headed toward the ranch for the evening, talking as the road before us grew more rural by the mile. I didn't mention my parents and did a pretty good job of keeping it shoved into a quiet corner in my mind. But the sting of it lingered, and a tiny cloud of gloom followed us on our trip. Though I knew with every ounce of my being that I was sitting next to the love of my life, I had no idea what the future held for us. I wasn't even sure what “future” meant at that point. My mind trailed off, and I looked out the window at the approaching prairie.

“You're awfully quiet,” Marlboro Man said, his hand resting on the back of my head.

“Am I?” I asked, playing dumb. “I don't mean to be.”

“You're not your usual self,” he responded, his hand finding the back of my neck. A million tingles traveled down my spine.

“Oh, I'm fine,” I said, trying to appear strong and together. “I think that twenty-mile run got the best of me today.”

Marlboro Man chuckled. I'd hoped that would happen. “Twenty miles? That's a mighty big golf course,” he remarked. We both laughed, well aware that I was way too much of a pansy-ass to run such a distance.

But there was no way I was bringing up what was really troubling me that night. I wasn't ready to admit it yet, to acknowledge that things in my family weren't as peachy as I'd always thought. I certainly wasn't ready to risk that dreaded quivering bottom lip that was always a distinct possibility lately whenever I vocalized something upsetting. I still hadn't forgiven myself for breaking down in Marlboro Man's kitchen after running over Puggy Sue. There was no telling what deluge might come if the subject matter turned to my mom and dad. I didn't think I could handle the humiliation.

When we pulled up to Marlboro Man's house, I saw my Camry sitting
in his driveway. I didn't expect it to be there; I figured it was still on Marlboro Man's parents' road, sitting all crooked in the ditch where I'd left it the night before. Marlboro Man had already fixed it, fishing it out of the ditch and repairing the mangled tires and probably, knowing him, filling the tank with gas.

“Oh, thank you so much,” I said as we walked toward the front door. “I thought maybe I'd killed it.”

“Aw, it's fine,” he replied. “But you might want to learn to drive before you get in it again.” He flashed his mischievous grin.

I slugged him in the arm as he laughed. Then he lunged at me, grabbing my arms and using his leg to sweep my supporting leg right out from under me. Within an instant, he had me on the ground, right on the soft, green grass of his front yard. I shrieked and screamed, trying in vain to wrestle my way out of his playful grasp, but my wimpy upper body was no match for his impossible strength. He tickled me, and being the most ticklish human in the Northern Hemisphere, I screamed bloody murder. Afraid I'd wet my pants (it was a valid concern), I fought back the only way I knew how—by grabbing and untucking his shirt from his Wranglers…and running my hand up his back, poking at his rib cage.

The tickling suddenly stopped. Marlboro Man propped himself on his elbows, holding my face in his hands. He kissed me passionately and seriously, and what started as a playful wrestling match became an impromptu make-out session in his front yard. It was an unlikely place for such an event, and considering it was at the very beginning of our night together, an unlikely time. But it was also strangely perfect. Because sometime during all the laughing and tickling and wrestling and rolling around in the grass, my worry and concern over my parents' troubles had magically melted away.

Only when the chiggers began biting did Marlboro Man suggest an alternate plan. “Let's go inside,” he said. “I'm cooking dinner.”
Yummy,
I thought.
That means steak.
And as we walked into the house, I smiled con
tentedly, realizing that the stress of the previous twenty-four hours had all but disappeared from view. And I knew it, even then: Marlboro Man, not only that night but in the months to come, would prove to be my savior, my distraction, my escape in the midst of troubles, my strength in the face of upheaval, my beauty in times of terrible, heartbreaking ugliness. He held my heart entirely in his hands, this cowboy, and for the first time in my life, despite everything I'd ever believed about independence and feminism and emotional autonomy, I knew I'd be utterly incomplete without him.

Talk about a terrifying moment.