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

After checking out the laundry room in the garage, I tread quietly upstairs. Why does it feel like I’m sneaking around? Maybe because I keep imagining Easton standing naked in the shower. This is why my dad wouldn’t approve. He shouldn’t approve. I’m going to completely fail all my classes if I live here.

Oh my. I swing the door to my room wider. It’s ideal. I should leave before I fall in love with it. Too late. Why? Why are you so perfect? Walk-in closet. Queen-size bed that looks brand new. A solid wood dresser and matching desk. A huge window with a window seat and sunlight filtering through the leaves. Wooden California shutter blinds. Crown moldings. My own gigantic bathroom with a soaker-tub and separate shower. I have to leave.

As I step into the upstairs hall, Easton emerges from his room directly across from me. His hair is wet and tied in a bun at the back of his head. He looks just as good in jeans and a white T-shirt as he did in only athletic shorts. He smells amazing, like Hawaii. I absolutely need to leave.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks as I make my way down the stairs in front of him, trying not to trip.

Once we’re safely back in the foyer I turn and answer, “Uh, it’s really great, but like I said, it’s not going to work. Three men and me.”

He nods, looking kind of disappointed as he reaches for a set of keys in a glass bowl on the hallway table. “That’s too bad, but I understand. You have to do what’s best for you.” He opens the door for me and follows me out, then locks the door. “Do you want me to walk you back to school?”

“Um, yeah, okay. That would be nice. Thank you.” My skin is tingling. What is that about? Apparently, the idea of walking with him makes me giddy like a fourteen-year-old. Get a grip, Della. He’s just a dumb cowboy who happens to have stunning looks. We walk in silence for a while, which feels awkward, so I ask, “What are you studying?”

“I’m working on my MBA.”

Oh boy. He’s not dumb. My legs feel weird. Maybe I should take the bus.

“How about you, Della? What are you studying?”

Wow. The sound of my name coming out of his mouth is like melted chocolate flowing over ice cream. I’m already distracted, and I haven’t even gone to one class yet. Guys like him are definitely experienced in the woman department. I wonder what he thinks about girls like me, AKA girls who went to an all-girls’ private school and haven’t had a lot of boyfriends. Or any, to be more specific. It’s not like I’ve never had offers. Guys have asked me out, but when I was younger I refused all invitations to date because my father forbid it until I was sixteen. By then I was so terrified at the thought of getting pregnant or contracting an STD and having to tell my dad, that I basically avoided anyone who showed an interest. Once I was older and more open to the idea of a relationship, I just never met anyone I was that into. Definitely never met anyone even remotely as intriguing as Easton.

These are not great shoes for walking. It’s really hot in Palo Alto. What was the question again? Oh yeah. “Studying post-grad. To do the engineering. I mean being an engineer. Environmental systems. Spring term entry. That’s what I’m learning for or doing. I’m going to be that.” Oh, my goodness, be quiet, Della. Abort. Abort the conversation. Change the subject. “You have very nice skin.”

His eyebrows angle comically as we cross the street. “Thank you. It runs in my family.”

Really? Gah. Complimenting him on his skin. How is that any less awkward? Ask him something normal. “Where are you from?”

“Here in California.” He stops on the curb to wait for a light—fortunately—since I’m completely oblivious right now and would have definitely stepped out into on-coming traffic. “Mojave,” he adds.

“Mojave? Like the desert?”

“Like the people.”

“Ah.” When the light changes, we cross and then cut through a small park. “So, you’re a bull riding, Mojave Native American, super model, studying for his MBA.”

“Bareback bronc rider, actually. And I haven’t modeled in ages. The rest is true, though. And I’m also a rancher.”

“Wow.” I follow him along a path that shortcuts through another neighborhood. “You’re very unusual.”

He glances at me with an expression that’s impossible to decipher. Hopefully he didn’t take it the wrong way. Of course, he did. Who wouldn’t?

“In a good way,” I blurt out. “Unusual. Not the bad unusual. I didn’t mean weird. Diverse. The opposite of everyday run of the mill. Interesting. Not dull like me.” I’m an idiot. One second, I’m drooling over him, the next I’m putting my foot in my mouth. Just stop talking, Della. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll never run into him again.

He slides his index finger over his eyebrow in an uncomfortable gesture. “The guys don’t know I used to model. Maybe we could keep that between you and me.”

“Sure.” Ugh. Now that I know it’s a secret I have an impulse to whisper it to the first person I see.

We walk in silence the rest of the way to campus, then he stops in front of a building. He stares at me for a second before he says, “You seem unusual too.”

As I’m wondering if he means the good kind of unusual or the bad, he hands me a key.

“The guys and I are leaving on a road trip tonight. We’ll be gone two days for a training clinic. Stuart gave me your number. I’ll message you mine. Think about renting the room. If you decide yes, then just move in and make yourself at home. If you decide no, drop the key in the mail slot. Cool?”

I nod. Yeah, cool, not really. Wait. What? I should just give the key back now. My hand isn’t moving. Why can’t I speak? He smiles and turns to bound up the stone stairs. He moves like an Olympian. Everyone in the vicinity watches as he waves back at me and then disappears through the front doors. A few of the females size me up, apparently because I was seen talking to the Mojave god. He must have Stanford celebrity status. Obviously he would. I mean look at him. And listen to him. And bask in his presence.

Okay, I’m still standing in the middle of the sidewalk with my hand out and a key on my upturned palm. Move, Della. Carry on. At least pretend to be a normal human being. In a less than convincing attempt to appear cool, I slide the key in my pocket and pull out my class schedule to figure out where I’m supposed to be. What time is it?

Chuck and BJ are already seated at the back of the lecture hall when I sneak in. Professor Cavendish isn’t cool with students being late and, unfortunately, she just made eye contact with me. I wave apologetically and shoot her a sheepish smile. She’s strict. It might not work. I pause halfway to my seat, waiting to see if she’s going to kick me out or let me stay. Her left eyebrow raises in a cautionary way, but then she carries on with the lecture without giving me the boot.

“Impressive,” BJ says around the toothpick that is perpetually propped at the corner of his mouth.

Chuck nods to agree with the impressiveness and pops an ice pack to apply to his injured shoulder. “Future generations will gather at the foot of your bronze statue as they recall the legend of Havie the Mojave: The only person in the history of the school to get away with being late to Cavendish’s class.”

Chuck is quintessentially redneck—mullet and lame-assed hunting tattoos to prove it. BJ’s more sophisticated, and he’s black, so the other cowboys call us the Village People when we show up on the circuit together. I don’t really care what they call us as long as we’re taking home the money. And we usually do.

BJ waits until Cavendish turns around before he asks, “How’d it go with the new roomie? What’s she like?”