8. Wilder
8
WILDER
ON THE ROAD — JUNE
T his hotel in Taos leaves something to be desired. It was a splurge instead of hauling my trailer this weekend. A chance to have unlimited hot water and a shower I can turn around in without hitting my elbows. But the refrigerator hums loudly, and the sheets are scratchy.
And there’s a distinct absence of a raven-haired cowgirl.
It’s been a week since I kissed Charlotte Stryker, and my life is never going to be the same. I don’t know how I know that. I’ve never been one for a commitment beyond the sunrise, haven’t bothered to try and be more than a good time and a good story, but all of that has changed.
Now, I want to be more. Give more. And that starts with Charlotte.
I lean back against the uneven pillows on this king-sized bed, then pull my phone from my pocket, opening my text thread with the girl I’m missing.
Me
I think I need a hobby.
Charlie
…okay…why?
Me
Because if I spend any more of my free time thinking about you, the police might qualify it as stalker behavior.
Charlie
Is this you flirting?
Me
Flirting implies I’m aiming to impress you. Clearly, I’m asking for an intervention. If I was flirting, I would ask what you were wearing right now.
Charlie
That’s not flirting either. I’m not impressed.
But I am laughing, so I guess that’s something.
I’m in my pajamas, tucked into my bed, deciding whether I want to watch Netflix or go to sleep.
We’ve texted every day since saying goodbye in South Dakota, but I swipe along my phone screen until the trilling of a FaceTime call starts. The initial ring doesn’t even finish before she connects us.
“Netflix or sleep are not your only two options,” I start, smiling when I see her tucked under a dove-gray comforter, surrounded by fluffy pillows. She’s in Missouri, too many states away for my liking, but that’s just how it is. I lift one arm and bring it behind my head, getting comfortable. “You can talk to me.”
“I feel like if I don’t, you’re going to keep texting me, so I might as well get it out of the way,” Charlotte sasses, but there’s no bite behind her words. In fact, the hint of a blush appears high on her cheeks. She holds her phone carefully as she rearranges herself on her side, then props it against something, and tucks both hands under her chin. “How did your ride go?”
“All right,” I offer. The truth is, it wasn’t spectacular. I came in third with a mid-range score. I could blame it on the horse, but sometimes it just isn’t your night. “Nothing to write home about. Yours?”
Charlotte’s face lights up with pride for a moment before she tries to keep it in check. But she doesn’t need to do that with me.
“You won.” I don’t make it a question, and she gives a nod of confirmation. “Hell yeah!”
“And can you believe it? This rodeo gave me a steak dinner with my winnings.”
“I’ve never been given dinner with my purse,” I grouse good-naturedly, slouching further on the bed. “Was it any good?”
“Couldn’t tell you. I don’t eat steak.” Charlotte looks away at her confession, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me.
“Are you telling me you’re an honest-to-God cowgirl, born and raised in Montana on a ranch, who doesn't eat red meat?”
“Cattle are a very small part of my family’s business,” she says. “But it’s mostly a texture thing, not a humanitarian thing. I don’t like the taste.” She pauses, then points a finger at the screen. “And I like burgers just fine, so don’t rule out all red meat.”
“All right, noted.” I like the warmth in Charlotte’s gaze, and with her good mood bolstering me, I can’t waste the opportunity to get to know her a little deeper. “So, if cattle aren’t the main function of the ranch, what is?”
Charlotte sighs, the light in her eyes going out a little as she begins to tell me about growing up and the expectations her parents had for her. So much of her drive—her entire personality, really—comes into focus. The idea that she had it easier than I did is muddled with every new revelation. She might have had the security I lacked, even the love I craved, but that hasn’t made her life less complicated than mine.
We talk until my eyes get heavy and Charlotte’s pauses between sentences begin to get longer and longer. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I wake up with a sore neck and a phone with a dead battery.
* * *
“This is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life. And I ride bulls for a living!”
I stabilize my phone on the steps to my trailer before moving back to stand next to Travis—who’s currently looking like he is regretting agreeing to this. Charlotte cackles from the screen as she clears the small living room in her rig of any obstacles. We’re stuck outside in the mid-June Arizona heat on an expanse of AstroTurf under my trailer’s awning for today’s attempt at yoga for beginners. An idea born out of Charlotte’s Google search for better riding techniques and my desire to see her in skin-tight workout clothes. I’m a simple man, after all.
“You’d probably be more comfortable if you weren’t wearing jeans and a button-down,” Charlotte rationalizes from Oklahoma. I can just make out her setting up our pre-selected tutorial video on her laptop. She’s going to follow the video, and we’re going to follow her. But after watching it through last night before I fell asleep, I’m inclined to think she’s right about Travis’ attire. I’m in a soft tee and a ratty pair of basketball shorts I only usually wear to and from the shower house. I’ve secured my hair with a backward baseball cap.
“These are just my clothes,” Travis grouses, but at least he removes his boots. “Since when do I need to be wearing something else? These do just fine all the rest of the time…”
He continues mumbling under his breath, but looks at my phone expectantly. I follow his gaze and see Charlotte standing with her feet shoulder-width apart, patiently waiting. The pair officially met last week in Boise, and having my best friend and my girl banter with each other like brother and sister is something I didn’t know I needed in my life.
“Ready?” she asks gently, but I can hear the laughter she’s trying to hold back at my best friend’s petulance. At our nods, instructions play from the video, and I watch, fascinated, as Charlotte bends and twists with near effortless grace through the movements.
Twelve minutes later, the novelty has worn off. I’m sweating. My legs shake. And I have a view of my underside I thought only doctors were privy to in extreme circumstances. Travis sits across from me, a cold can of soda in one hand, leaning against the side of my trailer. He gave up nine minutes ago and has delighted in my struggles ever since.
“No, no,” he directs, a finger waving lazily in my direction. “That arm has to thread through your legs.”
“If I do that, I’m going to fall on my face!” The arm in question is the only thing keeping me balanced at the moment, and I’m only ten seconds into a thirty-second hold of this pretzel-from-hell pose. The serenity the instructor promises through my phone’s speakers is nowhere in sight, and I’ve almost had it with this demented version of Twister.
“Travis is right; you’re supporting yourself with the wrong arm, Wild,” Charlotte says. I chance a quick look at her, and she’s calmly holding the pose. Slow and steady breaths can be heard, and she gives me an encouraging smile. I fix my pose—slowly—and am pleased when I remain steady. “There you go.”
“Thanks, baby,” I reply sweetly. Travis lets out a loud scoff from his spot.
“This is bullshit,” he yells, and I pull out of the position I’m in to look at his outburst. His words seem full of heat, but there’s a playful smirk quirking up the corner of his lips. On the screen, Charlotte abandons her position, too, and then walks to pick up her phone. I mirror her actions, picking up my own from the trailer steps before turning the camera so she can see my best friend throw a mock tantrum. My heart swells with laughter and warmth as Travis continues, “ I’m the one who said you were doing it wrong, but you only changed when she pointed it out. Can’t believe the day has finally come: Wilder McCoy’s got himself a girlfriend. Damn.”
* * *
I look at the calendar on the inside door of my closet. There’s one week until the Calgary Stampede. One week until I get to see Charlotte again. I close my eyes, remembering the way it felt to hold and kiss her two nights ago after the rodeo in Cheyenne. It was only the second time in nearly six weeks I’ve seen her, and it wasn’t long enough to satisfy my cravings for her.
As if my longing was felt in the universe, my phone vibrates on the nightstand, and Charlotte’s contact photo fills the screen. I close the bureau door before crossing the three steps to pick up.
“Hey.”
“Hi, Cowboy.” Her voice is sweet and low, and I find myself pressing the phone closer to my ear.
“You okay?” I can’t help but ask. It’s not the middle of the night, but it is late. I sit on the side of my bed, then swing my legs up to lie back more comfortably.
“Yeah,” Charlotte answers. There’s the sound of fabric rustling, and she lets out a long sigh. “I’m hiding in my bedroom at home, like any sane grown adult when faced with spending time with their parents.”
There’s no humor in her words, even though she finishes the sentence with a chuckle. In the weeks we’ve been apart, she’s gone back to her childhood home twice, and both times she’s been melancholy when we talk. I haven’t pushed her to explain, but I get the sense that being home is difficult for her. I’ve tried to help by keeping her mind off things.
“Your room still have posters of pop stars on the walls?” I tease, shifting the conversation.
“Nope.” She pops the “p” and gives a genuine little laugh. “My walls are full of trophies and medals.”
“Overachiever.” I picture her room: riding medals, junior rodeo belt buckles and other markers of her triumphant ascent through the racing ranks. There’s a long silence from the other end of the line. “What’s on your mind, baby?”
“Want to go to Calgary together?” Charlotte asks. Before I can answer, she keeps talking., “Like together, together. We’ll have to use my trailer because of Rooney, but I’ll meet you somewhere so that we can use your truck? And then we can spend the whole week with each other.”
The idea bounces around my head, but I don’t have to consider for too long. The logistics she’s discussing don’t matter. A week of uninterrupted time with Charlotte will always be a ‘yes.’
“Name the time and place, Charlie. I’m in,” I cut her off mid-sentence while she’s talking about splitting groceries and gas.
“Oh.” Her breath hitches in surprise. “Great. I just,” She hesitates, and I wish I could see her right now. Touch her and hold her while she talks. The ache her absence has created in the past several weeks has become harder and harder to ignore. “I would really like to spend more time with you.”
“I want that, too,” I assure her. There’s another stretch of silence, and I can tell she’s working up to saying something that’s been weighing on her thoughts.
“How many people have you slept with?”
I can’t help the exhale that parts my lips at her blunt question. But I try to deduce why she’s asking, and I can find the connection. Staying together in Calgary won’t be a roommate situation, and while it hasn’t been a hardship to follow the pace Charlotte has set, it’s responsible to talk this through.
“A lot,” I answer honestly. Charlotte hums in acknowledgment as I confirm my reputation. “I’m not sure if I should apologize for that or not?—”
“Not at all.” Her voice is firm. “You don’t owe me an explanation.” She pauses, but I can tell there’s more she needs to say. “I had a boyfriend in high school, but that’s the extent of my history. After we broke up, there were a few poor fumblings at house parties with a couple of random guys, but I’ve never slept over with anyone. And I’ve never had anyone stay in my rig with me.”
“Charlie,” I start, letting her admissions roll through me. It calls to a vulnerability deep within me to give her my own confession. “This will be a first for me, too, and I’m really glad it’s with you.”