D. R. Graham - To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before

Chapter two, paragraph three.

Hmm. He made a sound, more like a groan, like he’s straining. Or like he hurt himself. Maybe he stubbed his toe. That’s something I would do. I did do it. This morning. But he must be okay. He just sighed in relief, like a huge stress was released. Ha. I wonder if he knows that when he stubs his toe it sounds like something sexy. Wait. I sit up straight, close my book, and stare at the wall that divides my room and their bathroom. Was it something sexy? Guys do that in the shower, right? No. Maybe. Oh my gosh. Did I just listen to Easton masturbating? Why am I whispering my thoughts? He can’t hear me. But I heard him. I invaded his privacy. I stand and pace around the room frantically. I feel weird, like I should tell him the walls aren’t exactly sound proof. But that would be even more awkward.

Oh no, the bathroom door opened. He crosses the hall to his room. I wonder if he streaked across naked or wrapped a towel around his waist. Uh oh. He’s back in the hall. He’s going back downstairs. Sit down, Della. Stop acting like a freak. Chapter what? Paragraph what?

He knocks on my door. “Hey, Della. Are you decent?”

Um, of course. What kind of question is that? “Yes. Are you?”

He laughs and opens my door. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, hair tied in a knot. I blink at him repeatedly, not sure how to act. “Sorry to interrupt your studies. I’m going to make tea if you want some?”

“Sure.”

“And I was also thinking since the rodeo this coming weekend is only an hour away, you might want to come out for the finals on Saturday and see what we do. It’s up to you. I just wanted to make sure you know you’re always welcome.”

I nod. “Okay. Thank you. That sounds fun.”

He smiles, then steps back into the hall.

“I heard you stub your toe in the shower,” I blurt out. “Are you okay?”

His expression gets stuck somewhere between about to laugh and complete bewilderment. Eventually he flashes an Everley super model wink and says, “I think I’m going to be all right.”

After he leaves, I lean forward and bang my forehead against my desk, repeatedly. Stupid. Stupid. I’m going to die of embarrassment.

Della joins us on the driveway as we’re loading Chuck’s truck with our rodeo gear, getting ready to leave for the final day of competition. “Morning,” I say.

“Morning.” Her nose wrinkles after looking down at her flip-flops, jeans, and white tank top. “I don’t know what to wear to a rodeo. Is this all right?”

“That’s perfect,” BJ says. “You might want to bring a sweater for later, though. It can get cold at night.”

“Night? How long does the event take? I thought it was eight seconds each.”

He laughs. “There are a lot of events. Then we’ll go for dinner. And there’s a dance after. We’ll be out late.”

She inhales with a hint of frustration as if she feels that would have been useful information to have known beforehand. “I’ll be right back.”

I’ve got my new rigging stretched out in the garage, so I follow her inside to get it. Before I head back outside, I also grab a white cowboy hat that some girl BJ brought home once left here.

Della emerges from the house wearing a light-blue cotton dress that makes all three of us stare. No more bed bug bites to distract from her flawless skin. She changed into leather sandals and she’s carrying a denim jacket. She also pulled her ponytail out, ready for an outing that includes a dance later. Damn. Heads are definitely going to turn at the rodeo.

“Is that suitcase handle thing what you hold onto the horse with?” she asks.

“Yeah. This one is new.” I place the hat on her head and hand the rigging to her, so she can see what it feels like.

She tips the brim of the hat. “Thank you.” Then she lifts the rigging to test how heavy it is. “Eight seconds doesn’t seem very long. Is it really that hard to hold on?”

“Only when the horse is moving, darlin’,” BJ says.

All of us laugh.

Della hands the rigging back to me and runs her fingers over the tassels of our chaps, which are laid out in the back of the truck. Chuck’s are purple with yellow flames. BJ’s are two-tone blue. Mine are red, black, and gold. “These are pretty.”

“Which ones do you like the best?” Chuck asks.

She looks at him and notices the lightning bolts he got shaved onto the side of his head. They accentuate the ridiculousness of his mullet even more. “The red, black, and gold ones are my favorites,” she says. “But they’re all nice.”

“Do you like my new haircut?”

“Uh.” She studies it and her forehead creases. “It’s different.”

BJ smacks him in the back of the head. “See. Even the sweetest girl on the planet can’t find nothing nice to say about that redneck mop.”

“You don’t like my chaps. You don’t like my do. That hurts my feelings, Della,” Chuck shouts as he gets into the driver’s seat.

She blinks as if she’s about to get teary eyed and then glances at me.

“He’s kidding. It’s not possible to hurt Chuck’s feelings. And if people actually liked his business in the front, party in the back look, he wouldn’t wear it that way.” I open the back door of the cab for her and she climbs into the back-row seating behind Chuck. Then I walk around to get into the back on the other side. BJ takes the front passenger seat and we head out.

“Your truck is really nice,” Della says to Chuck to smooth things over.

“It’s too late for flattery, sweetheart. You already insulted my hillbilly hair.”

“The truck really is nice,” she says to me as she runs her hand over the leather seats. “I had no idea trucks could be this luxurious.”

I feign a sad look. “So, you weren’t impressed by my two thousand and five Silverado?”

“Yes. Or, I mean no, I was. Impressed.” A scarlet hue rises up her neck onto her cheeks and the terror of offending me makes her eyes widen. “Your truck is nice, too.”

“I’m just messing with you. Chuck’s truck is a sweet ride. It’s nicer than the rest of ours.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Chuck says and reaches back to fist bump me.

Pretending to be offended, BJ gasps and turns to glare at me. “You like Chuck’s truck better than mine?”

“Chuckie needs to be the best at something. Can’t you let him have the best truck?”

“No.” BJ crosses his arms to sell the sulk.

Chuck holds his hand up to make us all be quiet as he sings the chorus of an old George Strait song, then he says, “Although I appreciate the compliment, Della. You can’t compare a man’s truck or cock to another man’s truck or cock unless you’re hoping for a fight.”

“Watch your language, man,” I say.

Chuck shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “Sorry for cursing. I should have said trucks and penises. Or is it peni? That sounds worse than swearing, if you ask me.”

BJ takes a sip from his thermos, which is likely filled with vodka and orange juice. “You could use rig for both penis and truck.”

Chuck points at him to agree. “Rig works. I like it.”

Della’s eyes dart cautiously between each of us. “I can’t tell if you guys are joking or being serious.”

BJ rolls his head to look at her over his shoulder. “We don’t ever joke about trucks. Or penises.”

I wink at her and whisper, “They’re joking.”

She nods, but her eyebrows are still cinched together from the worry that she’s done something wrong. After letting her sweat it out for a while, BJ reaches into the back seat and offers her a piece of licorice to show her there are no hard feelings. She smiles and takes one for herself and one for me. “So, which one of you is the best at bucking?”