Page 18 of Sexting the Cowboy
My stomach drops and tries to climb into my throat at the same time. I flip it over with a thumb that suddenly forgot how to work.
The message is short.Well now. You sure you meant to send that to me?
For a second, my brain can’t process the words. Then a name flashes at the top of the thread that is not the name I thought I was texting, not the name that keeps a drawer nailed shut in my head.
Brick.
I picked the wrong Wyatt. What the hell do I do now?
6
BRICK
Townsin the western US blur when you live out of them long enough. Same beige, same art nobody chose, same dry air that steals the taste out of your mouth. This one’s nicer than most, so I try not to complain about it.
At least my trailer is the same. I got a king bed that doesn’t sag, blue and brown décor—Blaze’s doing—and a bathroom with water pressure that could strip paint. I split my time between this room and the kids’ hotel rooms, depending on whether I want silence or company. They aren’t fans of trailer life, but they’re warming up to the idea. I was raised in them, thanks to my dad and Grampa making me travel the rodeo circuit with them when I was a kid.
Tonight, though, I wanted the kind of quiet that lets a man hear his thoughts.
I’m showered, clean T-shirt, clean jeans, bare feet on the carpet while the AC hums. My hat sits crown-down on the dresser like a sleeping dog. Boots are by the door, dust still clinging in every stitch because Utah has a grudge against surfaces. I should be stretching, rolling out my hips, doing something responsiblewith a lacrosse ball and a prayer. Instead, I’m standing at the sliding door, looking at the stripe of moon over the trees, phone warm in my palm, re-reading the text that showed up like someone fired a flare into my night.
I wasn’t sure she meant it for me, so I kept my response glib.Well now. You sure you meant to send that to me?
I said it with a grin and a raised eyebrow in my head, but on the screen it looks like I’m calm. On the inside I’m not calm at all.
The little dots danced. Then they didn’t. Then they did. Then nothing for a long five minutes that tasted like trouble. I set the phone down, told myself to be an adult, picked it back up like a teenager.
Finally, she speaks.I did not. But now I’m rethinking it.
I sit on the edge of the bed because my knees go a little loose. I’m not a boy. I’ve been texted things that could get a nun disbarred. But this is different. Maybe because of the way she stood at the lemonade stand and tried not to smile.
I type slow, because the trick with a skittish mare and a wary woman is the same. Don’t come on like a storm.
Rethinking can be the smartest thing a person does all week.
She replies fast.You have annoying timing.
I chuckle.That so?
Yes. And you’re loud through text too. Is that talent or disease?
A talent,I say.And a public service. You sounded like you could use a smile earlier.
Her dots blink, vanish, blink.You have no idea what I could use.
Try me.I hit send and stand up, because the room feels smaller if I sit still while I wait. I pull the blackout curtain a few inches aside and look at the glow over the fairgrounds.
Her message lands.I could use a redo on the last five years. But barring that, I could use a drink that never ends and a month of sleep.
The first one I can’t pour through the phone. The second I can help with.
Oh? You make house calls now?
Only if the patient is stubborn and beautiful.
God, you are shameless.
I’m honest,I write back.And that’s rarer.
