Page 22 of Sexting the Cowboy
Don’t say that unless you mean it.
I mean it.
The dots appear, vanish. She sends a breath typed into letters.Okay.Tell me one thing you’d do if you were here.
I’d put your ankle over my shoulder and kiss the inside of your knee and listen for the sound you make when you decide to stop pretending you don’t want my mouth where you want it.
She sends a curse and a laugh in the same message, and I learn new things about my pulse.
My hand drifts to the back of my neck. The skin there is tight with good tension. I could go further. I know how to ride this to the end. But I keep the reins light. The best rides leave a horse wanting more.
You’re a distraction,she says, and I can feel the smile even without an emoji.
From what?
From everything. The noise. The list. The ghosts.
Then let me distract you.
She sends a picture of the ceiling.I’m not good at this anymore.
You’re doing fine. You’re doing better than fine.
But I know the temperature has changed. It’s not sudden. It’s a soft draft across the back of my neck, the way a storm shifts before you see lightning.
Her next message takes longer.I need to slow down.
Understood.
I’m sorry.
Nothing to be sorry for.
It’s not you.
I wince at the cliché and then forgive it because there’s a person behind it trying to be careful.I’m not going anywhere. I like this. I like you. We can stop wherever you want.
She takes a while to answer. When she does, it’s small.Thank you.
I set the phone down a second and stare at the ring left by a glass on the nightstand. I want to pick her up, set her somewhere safe, tell her the world can keep spinning without her for one night. But I don’t do rescues. I do respect.
You okay?I ask after a minute.
Yes. I just…overcorrected. Long day. My brain tries to protect me by slamming the brakes.
I smile at the ceiling.Your brain is smart. I like her already.
You’re annoyingly kind.
It’s a problem.
She sends a photo of a coffee table with a single square of dark chocolate on a napkin.I bribe myself when I do hard things,she writes.Tonight I earned this.
You earned two,I say.
Maybe.
I settle deeper into the pillows, one arm flung over my head. I imagine her across town in an apartment that smells like soap and one plant fighting for its life. I let the ache of not being there sit like a coin under my tongue, metallic and specific. It’s hard to explain it, or maybe I don’t want to understand it, but there’s something about this woman that scratches an itch.
