Page 59 of Cowgirls Love French Kisses
Annie's voice rings out from the stands, "Swing it wide, Mathieu!" I nod, focusing on the dummy steer in front of me. My first throw is a disaster, the rope barely making it halfway. The crowd chuckles, but it's good-natured, and I can't help but join in too.
"Come on, you got this!" Annie encourages. I take a deep breath, channeling every cowboy movie I've ever seen. The rope flies, twirling through the air, and miraculously loops around a horn. A cheer erupts from the stands.
The announcer's voice is full of humor, "Well, I'll be! The Frenchman's got some skills!" I raise my arms in mock triumph, grinning from ear to ear.
Back at the stands, Annie is clapping wildly. "See, I knew you had some Texan in you!"
The rest of the rodeo passes in a blur of bull riding, barrel racing, and more laughs. Annie grabs my arm, and the electricity feels so real.
Maybe this is the moment.
My hand dives into my pocket, searching frantically. Relief washes over me as my fingers close around the small velvet box, its presence a reminder of the future I'm so eager to unfold.
“That was amazing!” Cousin Natalie is upon us. “Annie, this boy’s a keeper. With boots and a hat, he even managed to rope a horn.”
“Beginner’s luck,” I say with a smile as I tuck the box back deeper in my pocket.
"Whatcha got there, Mathieu?" Annie's curious voice pulls me back to the moment. I quickly pocket the box again, masking my sudden jolt of nerves with a casual smile.
"Oh, nothing, just… look at that!" I’ve never been so grateful for a man riding a bull in my life.
As we walk, her hand in mine, the weight of the box in my pocket is more than just a few grams. It's a weight that fills me with purpose and certainty. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I want to spend my life with Annie. And when the perfect moment arrives, I'll make sure she knows it too. In my heart, I'm certain—I'll know when it's the right time, and it will be as clear as the Texas sky above us.
But first, I have to survive square dancing.
The warm night air gives way to the vibrant energy inside the dance hall. As we step through the doors, the lively twang of country music and the rhythmic stomping of cowboy boots on aged wooden floors envelop us. The place buzzes with an infectious spirit, a wild blend of laughter, whoops, and the scent of spilled beer.
My eyes widen despite myself, taking in the whirl of dancers, their movements a fluid, synchronized ballet of boots and denim. There's a raw, unpolished charm to it all that's enthralling yet intimidating. I glance at Annie, hoping she realizes that I got lucky with the lasso, but that luck has nothing to do with my non-country sense of rhythm.
"You're gonna love this," she says, her voice full of that confident twang that first captivated me a year ago.
Squeezing her hand, I allow the rhythm of the music to seep into me, feeling the thud of the bass in my chest. Annie's hand in mine is both an anchor and an invitation as we edge closer to the dance floor, the laughter and shouts of the dancers echoing around us. The air is thick with anticipation. Annie gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, her smile saying it all—this is going to be a night to remember, for better or for worse.
As the music kicks into a lively country rhythm, Annie, with her trademark grin, pulls me towards the dance floor. "Come on, city boy," she teases, "time to show what you've got."
The dance floor is a sea of swirling skirts and cowboy boots. I watch, a mix of awe and apprehension, as dancers glide effortlessly in unison. Annie starts showing me the basic steps of line dancing. "It's just step, tap, step, tap," she says, her voice a melody above the music.
My first attempt is anything but graceful. I stumble over my own feet, earning a few amused glances from nearby dancers. "Whoa there!" a burly man with a handlebar mustache laughs from the sidelines. "You're dancin', not wrestlin'!"
Annie's laughter rings out, clear and loud, as she gently guides me back into rhythm. "Don't mind them," she says. "You're doing great!"
I try to mimic her steps, but my movements feel stiff and uncoordinated. "I think I'm more suited for the waltz than this," I admit as I try to catch up with the beat.
Gradually, the rhythm starts to make sense, and my steps become less erratic. The music and laughter, the clapping and the stomping, it all blends into a lively harmony that's impossible to resist. I’m laughing along, my initial embarrassment fading into the sheer fun of the moment.
As the song ends, I'm breathless but exhilarated. "Not bad for a first timer," Annie approves, her eyes shining with pride. "We might just make you a cowboy yet."
The dancers around us cheer, some clapping me on the back. "Frenchy’s got the spirit, that's for sure!" the man with the mustache calls out, raising his beer in salute.
As the night wears on, the music flows like a river, and with each new song, I get more into the groove. The initial stiffness in my movements gives way to a newfound confidence. I'm no longer just following Annie's lead; I'm actually keeping up with her.
"Look at you go!" Her approval sends a warm rush of pride through me and I make her do an extra spin.
The crowd starts to gather around us, clapping in time with the music. There's a sense of camaraderie in the air, a shared joy in the simple act of dancing. I'm no longer the awkward foreigner; I'm part of the celebration, part of this vibrant Texan night.
As the song reaches its final notes, we end with a flourish, our last spin drawing cheers and applause from the onlookers. We stand there, breathless and exhilarated, the applause washing over us like a wave. Annie beams at me, her eyes shining with pride.
For a moment, standing there on the dance floor, surrounded by smiling faces and the lingering echoes of laughter and music, I feel an overwhelming sense of belonging.
