Chapter Two #2
And yes, part of the appeal was that I thought I’d never meet him in person, so this was a safe way to do something totally crazy. While the other part—the bigger part—was that I couldn’t control myself.
Something about him, about his words, spoke to me.
There was some magic in them that I still haven’t figured out. Or rather now that I’ve met him, I think it was fire. Hot, burning fire that I couldn’t help but want to touch, want to be branded with; I don’t know. All I know is that once I started writing to him, I didn’t want to stop.
But of course that was stupid.
All of it was stupid, and honestly, I’m glad that it’s over now. I can go back to my old life with classes, my job at the library, my other summer plans.
“You know you’re gorgeous, right?” Peyton goes, breaking my thoughts.
God, I love her.
I also know that she’s my best friend and she wears rose-colored glasses when it comes to me.
The truth is that I’m not gorgeous. I’m far from it.
I’m too short and rounded. My ass and thighs are too big but my waist is too small, making it impossible to find pants and skirts that fit.
Actually, I can hardly find shirts that fit, either, with my too big and too disproportionate chest. So I always end up with baggy jeans and a loose sweatshirt, clothes that I hate but are necessary.
Not to mention, my nose is too small, and my eyes are too big.
My chin is too jutting out, and my lips are too swollen.
I have too much hair that I can never hope to tame, so I always just braid it, and my skin is too pasty and pale.
I’m either too much or not enough.
But it’s fine.
It’s not a big deal.
Do I sometimes wish I looked different? Of course. Everyone does. We all have things about ourselves that we’d change. Mine just happens to be my body. Peyton would never agree with me, but that’s okay. That’s the testament of her loyalty, so I give her a fond smile. “I know.”
“And he’s an asshole for making you feel anything less,” she adds.
I swallow, my heart clenching. “I know that too.”
Peyton studies my features, her brow furrowing in concern. “I mean it, Riri. You’re beautiful. You’re amazing and I love you. And if that convicted criminal asshole can’t see that, then it’s his loss, okay? He doesn’t get to make you feel this way.”
That, I completely agree with.
He absolutely does not.
If I really think about it, I don’t even know him.
All we did was write some letters to each other over the course of a few months.
And maybe there were thirty-seven letters in total, and maybe I shared things that I’ve never really shared with anyone.
But that doesn’t mean I actually know him.
I can sit here and write out a list of things I don’t know about him.
I mean, I hadn’t even seen him until this morning, and five minutes in his presence was enough to let me know that I never wanted to see him again.
So Peyton is right; he doesn’t get to make me feel this way.
This time my reply is filled with conviction. “I definitely know that.”
She bites her lip before saying, “Although, I can’t help but think it’s my fault.”
“What? Why?”
She sighs. “Because I encouraged you. Right from the start. Because when you came to me and said that you were exchanging letters with a felon who, by the way”—she raises her hand—“you started writing to because of me and my stupid grades, I didn’t stop you.
I didn’t caution you like you always caution me.
I didn’t say, ‘Think, Riri. He could be an asshole. He’s in prison, for God’s sake.
’ No, I said, ‘Go ahead, Riri; live a little. Flirt it up. Be bad.’ Because I said it would be good for you to actually act your age for once and not live like an old woman just because of”—her eyes go big—“you know who.”
I do know who. And again, it’s a testament to her loyalty that she wouldn’t say exactly who because I don’t like to talk about her.
My mother, specifically.
She is right; I do live like an old woman—all cautious with no adventures—because of my mom. Because of all the choices she made in her life and how it affected her. And by extension, me.
Peyton was also right when she said she was the one who encouraged me when I came to her and told her that my letters had somehow become so much more than a mere assignment. In fact, when I told her that he wanted to meet me and that I wasn’t sure about it, it was she who said I had to do it.
I had to or I’d regret it.
But I don’t blame her, no way. What happened to me today was not her fault. She was being a good friend like always. A friend who wants more for me than what I allow myself.
“Hey”—I turn to face her fully now as well—“are you crazy? It’s not your fault.”
“But—”
“No.” I cut her off again. “Absolutely not. I’ve always done your assignments and I will always do your assignments.
In fact, I probably should’ve done them all in the first place rather than letting you try to handle some yourself.
” She rolls her eyes, but I continue, “So if we really think about it, it’s my fault.
Because if I had done your assignments like always, you wouldn’t have been failing your midterms and you wouldn’t have needed to do the extra work. ”
She shakes her head. “But I should’ve stopped you. I should’ve said something.”
“You couldn’t have stopped me,” I tell her.
“But—”
“No, Pey, you couldn’t have. No one could have.
I wanted to do it. I wanted to write to him.
And I may have been scared in the beginning but I wanted to go see him.
God, I wanted that so much. I…” I swallow thickly.
“I may have told myself that I wouldn’t go, that I was still making up my mind, but I knew, deep down, that there was no way I wouldn’t go see him today.
There was no way I could be anywhere other than at that café at eleven. ”
I know that now.
I knew it the moment I walked in and found him sitting there with his trucker’s cap on and his eyes pinned to the door. That’s how he found me so quickly, wasn’t it? Because he was watching the door.
He was waiting for me.
He even ordered my favorite things. I want to be so angry at him—and I am—but every time I think of that tea and that muffin, it makes something clench in my belly.
It makes my heart even achier. How could he be such a complete jerk but then do such a thoughtful thing?
No, actually, he turned into a jerk after he saw me.
Gosh, he must’ve been so disappointed.
So utterly disappointed that the girl he’s been corresponding with for the past six months turned out to be nothing like he imagined. Turned out to be so lacking.
“I really want to punch him,” Peyton says, once again pulling me out of my thoughts.
I swing my eyes over to hers. “I know.”
“Stupid fucking cowboy.”
Despite myself, my heart picks up speed.
And at such a silly thing too.
Yes, he’s a cowboy.
He has a ranch. I’m not sure where or what it’s called, but I know there’s a creek running through the middle of his land and he misses it. He didn’t tell me that in so many words, but the way he talked about it made me think he did. Which again goes to show that I didn’t even know him.
Not really.
In any case, it’s not really a special thing, being a cowboy.
This is Montana; this is cowboy country.
Every other guy who lives here is a cowboy.
I grew up with them; and to be honest, my—and Peyton’s—experience hasn’t been really great.
I mean, my dad is a cowboy and her dad, too, and neither of them is a paragon of virtue or anything.
In fact, they’re downright evil. So again, he’s not really special, and there’s no need for me to go all shaky and weird.
Liar.
You know you have never seen a cowboy like him.
Even though he wasn’t really in his element and hadn’t even been a cowboy for eight years, I could still picture him out on the field, working the land, that big bronzed body of his weathering the sun.
I could picture him wrangling a horse and roping cattle with those burly muscles.
I bet he could tame a wild horse with only a look from his fiery dark eyes.
Or he could stop a stampede with only the sound of his deep, rough voice.
But that’s neither here nor there as I answer Peyton. “Yup.”
“Of course he is,” Peyton concludes. “I knew I hated cowboys for a reason.”
Yeah. So again, all of this was really stupid, getting tangled up with a cowboy who also happens to be a felon. Which means I really need to stop thinking about him and move on with my life.
And that’s why I declare, “Movie time! Let’s stop talking about him and get our night started, shall we?”
She still watches me with a careful gaze. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? Just to take your mind off of things.”
“I’m sure.”
“But are you, though?” she insists. “It’s the Bahamas.”
I chuckle. “I know, but I am. I’m just going to spend my time relaxing and maybe picking up some shifts at the library.”
And doing that thing I always wanted to do.
“Ugh. Fine.” Her shoulders sag. “I love you; you know that, don’t you?”
My smile is a little wobbly. “I know. I love you too.”
“You’re amazing and gorgeous and beautiful,” she says with a pointed stare. “Don’t let anyone make you feel any less, okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She’s right. Not about the being gorgeous part but about the part that no one gets to make me feel any less. Least of all a man named Bo Porter that I’ve only known for six months.