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

I’m itchy.

The stores aren’t open across the street. Hopefully the restaurant on the other side of the parking lot opens at five. A sketchy looking guy sitting at the bus stop is staring at me. Maybe I should go into the office.

The fifty-something clerk is asleep behind the counter, so I sit on a chair next to the tourism pamphlets. They’re so old. It looks like they haven’t been restocked since the nineties. The coffee is burnt to the bottom of the pot, the plastic plants are covered in a layer of dust, and the ceiling has creepy holes in it, like a camera is hidden in it, or a creature. I’m for sure going to have nightmares about this place at some point.

The clerk snores himself awake and blinks groggily at me. “Hey there. I didn’t hear you come in. You need something?”

“Do you have jumper cables?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” I shoot up out of the chair. I was half-joking when I said it and honestly didn’t think he would. “That’s fantastic.”

“Are you checking out?”

“Yes. Please.” I slide the key across the counter. He already made me pre-pay for the night so it’s just a matter of signing a piece of paper and I’m free to go.

“I’ll get my truck and meet you around front.”

Yay.

It feels like I’m breaking and entering into the Palo Alto house. And, apparently, I am. Easton didn’t mention anything about an alarm, but I hear beeping. Uh, oh. How long do they give you? Thirty, sixty seconds? I don’t even know where the panel is. Shoot. I’m going to end up in jail, and none of us have any money to bail me out. Ending up a convict will absolutely support my dad’s argument that moving here was a bad idea.

Okay, stop panicking. Where’s the panel? It sounds like it’s in the hall that leads to the garage. I sprint and quickly open the cover. 1234, nope. 0000, nope. 9999, nope. How many chances do they give you to screw up? At least there’s no rent in jail. Think, Della. What would three cowboys choose as their alarm code? Boots? Horse? Bronc? Spurs? Or, how about 2057. The house address? Nope. How about the address backwards?

Ha. Bingo. It’s disarmed. Woohoo. I’m a genius. Running man. Sprinkler. Booty bounce. Whoa, slip and hit my knee on the tile. Ouch. Okay, dancing is not my strong suit, not even celebratory jigs. I’m going to stop that now.

The light flicks on. “Hey.”

Bah! Sweet Mother of Pearl. I gasp, clutching my chest to prevent my heart from leaping out of it. Easton fills the width of the hallway. When I notice the baseball bat on his shoulder I instinctually step back.

He chuckles and places the bat on the floor, leaning it against the wall. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you were an intruder.”

The sight of him causes adrenaline to gush through my veins. Not the bad kind from the thought of being mistaken for a burglar and attacked by a massive, muscular man with a bat. The good kind from only the thought of the massive, muscular man part. A man who happens to be smiling as if he’s glad I’m the intruder.

“I didn’t realize you’d be moving in so late.” He smiles and glances over his shoulder at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. “Or early.”

“I, uh, hi. Sorry. I would have called if it weren’t so late slash early. Long story. I should have called, but I thought you were supposed to be out of town.”

“I didn’t go. My dad’s not feeling that well after his last chemotherapy treatment, so I’m driving out there today to visit him.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” I rub my knee where it’s already starting to grow a lump and wonder if he witnessed me fall. “Do you think it’s serious? Your dad?”

He shrugs and leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “Probably. He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch, so if he’s showing pain it’s not a good sign.” He glances at me and his eyes search my face as if he’s trying to read my expression. “Sorry for cursing.”

“Oh, no. Don’t apologize.” I wave my hands in an attempt to ease his unnecessary repentance. “You don’t have to change who you are for me. I’m not a total prude.” Except that I kind of am. Or, always have been. I guess I don’t have to be.

He glances at the alarm panel. “You cracked the code?”

“Yeah. Eventually.” I can’t help but grin at my own cleverness.

“There you go. Women are smart enough to be engineers.” He turns and walks down the hall towards the kitchen. “Since we’re both up, you want some breakfast? I can make us an omelet.”

Hmm. Yeah, breakfast with Easton would be good. But I was only planning on crashing here and then leaving. Sneak in a shower, maybe a dip in the pool. Make one of those smoothies. And then gone. That was the plan. Easton being here is definitely not part of the plan. My reaction to Easton calling me smart is also unexpected. He has some sort of magic effect on me. Everyone probably feels that way around him. That’s why Stuart photographs him. He’s got that something special. It. He’s got it. Whatever it is. I like it. Which is why I am going to join him for breakfast in this very big, very empty house. Just the two of us. Alone. By ourselves.

Oh, grow up, Della. It’s eggs with a guy, not sex.

“So, you decided to move in,” he says as he clicks the gas element on. “I didn’t realize it would be at four-thirty in the morning.” He laughs. “Sorry I forgot to tell you the alarm code.” His hair is woven into one long braid that trails down his spine. He’s not wearing a shirt again, so every detail of his chiseled back is on display. Cooking half-nude. I guess he’s not particularly concerned about splatter burns. He probably doesn’t feel them. Like a superhero, impermeable to the injuries of mere mortals. He turns to face me with the spatula poised in the air, as if he’s waiting for something. Did I miss the question?

“Um, sorry, what did you say?”

“What made you decide to shack up with three men? I know it’s not because you found Chuck and BJ irresistibly charming.” He points at the fridge. “Cheese or no cheese in your omelet?”

“Cheese is good. I like cheese.”

He smiles and leans into the fridge to take out all the ingredients. Cheese is good. I like cheese. He must think I’m odd. I am odd. And how am I supposed to tell him that I didn’t actually decide to move in, I was just going to be a squatter for the night? He looks over at me again because, yeah that’s right, I haven’t answered the question yet. It’s so hot in here. I pull off my sweatshirt and say, “Cockroaches.”

His eyebrows angle together as he attempts to decipher my cryptic conversation skills.

“Cockroaches made my decision for me.”

He places a bowl on the counter and stares at me with his mouth slightly agape. All of me. Not my face. My body. What’s he looking at? Okay, I know I’m in my pajamas, and my hair’s a mess, and my breath probably smells horrid, but I don’t think it warrants actual shock on his part.

“What happened to your skin?”

I glance down at my arms. They’re completely covered in red marks, like spider bites but all over in tracks. And they run along my chest. And, oh my goodness, all down my legs. What is that? I’m scarlet. It’s a cockroach disease. That’s why I’m so itchy. Even itchier now that I’ve noticed. My scalp is itchy now. I stand and jig around because it feels like insects are crawling all over me. “What is it?”

“It looks like bed bugs got you.”

“Bed bugs? Are they still on me?”

He chuckles. “Probably not, but they might be on your luggage and in your clothes.”

Yuck. Disgusting. Thank goodness I left my stuff in the trunk of my car and didn’t track them in here. “Ugh. That motel was wretched. I probably have lice and tics and scabies, too. I should go.”