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

There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t pursue anything with Della – including every complication that goes along with living together if it works out, or worse, if it doesn’t work out – the money I’d owe them isn’t even on the top of the list. Unfortunately, none of the reasons hold much weight when we’re in close proximity.

She comes back downstairs dressed in a white blouse, white tennis shoes, and pink pants that are rolled at the ankle. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail and although she doesn’t seem to wear makeup, her lips are shiny as if she put on some sort of gloss. I try to ignore that, and as we leave the house, I remind myself of all the reasons it would be a bad idea to pursue her. I have canvas grocery bags in my truck, so I offer to drive, then open the passenger door for her. Walking around the back of the truck to the driver’s side, I mumble, “Come on, Havie. Stop acting like you can’t take your eyes off her. It’s a trip to Trader Joe’s, not a date.”

As I back out of the driveway, her gaze scans the interior of the truck, checking it out. I keep it clean, which she seems surprised by. “How far is the drive to your dad’s ranch?” she asks.

“Close to four hours. It’s near Three Rivers, California.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

I nod and turn left at the lights. “Yeah. It’s a nice area. I can take you there sometime.”

She smiles and runs her palms along her thighs as if she’s nervous or something. “I grew up in a village about four hours outside of Moscow. It’s not a nice area. I won’t take you there sometime. I mean, for your own sake. Not because I wouldn’t take you if you wanted to go. I’m just sure you wouldn’t like it there. That’s all. I would take you. It’s not sight-seeing worthy, though.”

“Sight-seeing worthy or not, growing up in Russia is interesting. Is your extended family still in the village?”

“My dad’s side of the family is. My mom’s side of the family is actually former Russian aristocracy, so they fled Russia a long time ago. Her parents weren’t thrilled about her marrying a poor country boy that she met at university.” Her eyes widen as she glances at me. “No offence. I have nothing against country boys. Not that I have a thing for them, either. Just nothing against them. Or poor people. Love is the most important thing. Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

I chuckle as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Should we call you princess?”

She smiles, relieved that I wasn’t offended by the poor country boy diss. “No. If we were in the nineteenth century I would have been on par with a more fully dressed Kardashian at best. Nowadays I’m just a middle-class Russian-Canadian immigrant.” She winks. “You can address me as Lady Della if you like, though.”

Being a descendant of aristocrats explains a lot, maybe not her goofy humor. That might be more a country pauper thing. I’m still smiling as I pull into a parking spot. We both hop out and I ask, “Do you speak Russian?”

“Yes, my parents both speak it at home, especially when they’re mad at me.”

I grab a grocery cart and follow her into the store. As she heads to the produce section, I chuckle at the image of her parents shouting at her. “I can’t imagine anyone ever being mad at you.”

“Oh, trust me it happens.” Her nose wrinkles as if she’s not proud to admit it but is too honest to deny it. “You don’t know me well enough yet to know I can be very grumpy if I’m stressed. And I get PMS moody, not that you probably want to know that, but maybe you guys should know if you’re going to have a female roommate.” She pauses to choose avocados from the display and places them in the cart. “You said you’re an only child, so if you haven’t spent a lot of time around sisters or girlfriends. I mean, I’m sure you’ve had lots of girlfriends or have a girlfriend.” Her eyes dart sideways to check my expression before she distractedly pokes a row of papayas one at a time.

Was that her way of asking if I’m single?

Before I have a chance to say anything she starts talking again like a racehorse out of the gate. “You definitely probably have a girlfriend, or maybe you like men. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to assume or imply anything, or not imply anything.”

She’s unquestionably fishing for my status. And I could tell her. But that might unlock a whole load of awkwardness. For both of us.

“Sorry,” she says after she notices that my mood shifted into something more serious. “I’m just trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to say that women, some women, me, I get irritable sometimes.” She picks a bundle of asparagus and a clamshell of cherry tomatoes. Then, in an oddly impressive way continues her animated gestures as she talks with her hands full. “Bottom line, living with me means you can anticipate some eye rolls and an occasional snappy tone of voice once a month. I apologize for that in advance. And if you ever get angry at me I’ll remind you of this conversation in an I-warned-you way, which will likely only aggravate you more.” She studies the firmness of a mango before making eye contact with me again. “And you’ll likely end up shouting at me in Russian.”

I smile and grab two lemons and two limes. “I’ll steer clear of you once a month. And I promise not to learn any Russian.”

“I have more flaws.” She pulls a grapefruit from the display and scrambles to catch the others before they roll down the slope. “I’m completely uncoordinated, as you might have already noticed. You’d be surprised how angry a person can get when, due to clumsiness, you break or ruin something they love. Just ask my sister about her former diamond earring that is now in the Greater Vancouver Regional District sewer system thanks to a mishap that involved a public toilet and a bee. You don’t need to know the details. I can be annoying when I’m in a chatty mood, which is almost always. Also, sometimes when I get nervous I jam my foot in my mouth and offend people by saying something inadvertently offensive or borderline stupid.” She glances at me almost as if she expects me to confirm that one.

I add a bag of apples to the cart. “Well, nobody’s perfect. And it’s entertaining for me when you do something embarrassing like your attempted touchdown dance that nearly blew out your ACL after figuring out the alarm code.”

Her face turns almost magenta and she clenches her eyes shut as if she’s attempting to erase that incident from either her memory or mine. She haphazardly tosses a head of lettuce, a bunch of carrots, and a bag of baby potatoes into the cart. Then, without saying anything, she speed-walks ahead and turns the corner into the cereal aisle.

Sexy and a goofball. Can’t say I’ve ever met anyone quite like her.

All three of the boys are seated at the dinner table, laughing at a joke Chuck cracked. I think it included some sort of obscure sexual innuendo, so I don’t really get why it’s funny, but I’m smiling because they enjoyed the grilled fish and asparagus dinner I made. The brownies were a hit, too. They were Easton’s choice of dessert because he doesn’t like pie. Who doesn’t like pie?

“Thanks, Della,” BJ says. “Everything was really great. We have a new contender for best cook in the house.” He smacks Easton’s shoulder to give him a hard time.

I shake my head to turn down the title. “I only have three go-to options, and one of them is spaghetti, so don’t get too excited.”

They all laugh.

Easton’s eyes meet mine for an extra beat before he takes the last bite of his brownie. Chuck jumps up from the table to clear the dishes. “Thanks for dinner, Della, but I gotta go. Janine is waiting for me. Date night. AKA Chuck gets lucky night.” He loads the dinner plates into the dishwasher and then leaves.