Chapter 6 Brick
brICK
Towns in the western US blur when you live out of them long enough. Same beige, same art nobody chose, same dry air that steals the taste out of your mouth. This one’s nicer than most, so I try not to complain about it.
At least my trailer is the same. I got a king bed that doesn’t sag, blue and brown décor—Blaze’s doing—and a bathroom with water pressure that could strip paint.
I split my time between this room and the kids’ hotel rooms, depending on whether I want silence or company.
They aren’t fans of trailer life, but they’re warming up to the idea.
I was raised in them, thanks to my dad and Grampa making me travel the rodeo circuit with them when I was a kid.
Tonight, though, I wanted the kind of quiet that lets a man hear his thoughts.
I’m showered, clean T-shirt, clean jeans, bare feet on the carpet while the AC hums. My hat sits crown-down on the dresser like a sleeping dog.
Boots are by the door, dust still clinging in every stitch because Utah has a grudge against surfaces.
I should be stretching, rolling out my hips, doing something responsible with a lacrosse ball and a prayer.
Instead, I’m standing at the sliding door, looking at the stripe of moon over the trees, phone warm in my palm, re-reading the text that showed up like someone fired a flare into my night.
I wasn’t sure she meant it for me, so I kept my response glib. Well now. You sure you meant to send that to me?
I said it with a grin and a raised eyebrow in my head, but on the screen it looks like I’m calm. On the inside I’m not calm at all.
The little dots danced. Then they didn’t. Then they did. Then nothing for a long five minutes that tasted like trouble. I set the phone down, told myself to be an adult, picked it back up like a teenager.
Finally, she speaks. I did not. But now I’m rethinking it.
I sit on the edge of the bed because my knees go a little loose. I’m not a boy. I’ve been texted things that could get a nun disbarred. But this is different. Maybe because of the way she stood at the lemonade stand and tried not to smile.
I type slow, because the trick with a skittish mare and a wary woman is the same. Don’t come on like a storm.
Rethinking can be the smartest thing a person does all week.
She replies fast. You have annoying timing.
I chuckle. That so?
Yes. And you’re loud through text too. Is that talent or disease?
A talent, I say. And a public service. You sounded like you could use a smile earlier.
Her dots blink, vanish, blink. You have no idea what I could use.
Try me. I hit send and stand up, because the room feels smaller if I sit still while I wait. I pull the blackout curtain a few inches aside and look at the glow over the fairgrounds.
Her message lands. I could use a redo on the last five years. But barring that, I could use a drink that never ends and a month of sleep.
The first one I can’t pour through the phone. The second I can help with.
Oh? You make house calls now?
Only if the patient is stubborn and beautiful.
God, you are shameless.
I’m honest, I write back. And that’s rarer.
There’s a pause. I picture her on some couch or bed with the light off, the phone lighting her face, hair down or up, jaw still set even when no one’s looking.
I’ve met a thousand women on the road and forgotten three quarters of their names.
This one sits in my head like a song I can’t stop humming.
Okay, she says. So be honest. Why me?
Because you tried to hate me and failed in under sixty seconds.
That’s ridiculous.
The truth is usually ridiculous.
She sends nothing for ten heartbeats. I grin into the quiet because I can almost hear her snort.
Because, I add, you looked at me like a problem you wanted to solve and then decided you’d rather not. I haven’t had that look in a long time. It’s interesting.
She’s quick-minded, but that gives her pause. Interesting like a lab specimen?
Interesting like a door I want to open.
Her answer is slower this time. Careful. What would you do if you opened it?
I sit back on the bed, one ankle across my knee. The AC kicks on, rattles, settles. I keep my thumbs easy on the glass. First thing I’d do? Listen.
To what?
To what you say when you finally stop being polite.
I can almost feel the way she breathes for that. Doc voice all day, measured and precise, and I want the words that live under Clipboard Annie. It’s not a kink. It’s curiosity.
Though I have kinks too.
Enough pussyfooting around. You really want to know what I’d do with you?
I’d learn your schedule first, because you look like someone whose time is regimented.
Then I’d find out what kind of coffee you actually like and I’d bring it without asking.
Then I’d take you out and not talk about rodeo for three straight hours even if you try to bait me.
And when you inevitably get tired of pretending you don’t want me, I’d ask you to invite me in. I don’t do guessing games.
That’s…a lot of planning for a bull rider.
I grin. I’ve been around enough to know what I’m doing in any arena.
A beat. Then, Cocky.
Confident, I send back, because we’ve done this dance once already and I like the repetition.
The dots wiggle. I picture her mouth when she shakes her head at me. Okay, confident. What happens if I invite you in?
I let my eyes close a second. I’d slow everything down until your day is a vague memory. I’d start by putting my phone face down on your counter and asking you to do the same.
Bossy.
Focused. Then I’d ask what you want tonight. Not in life. In this hour. Because I can make a woman generous with herself, but I don’t make decisions for her without that nod.
Her reply is almost a whisper on the screen. And if I didn’t know what I wanted?
Then I’d put you by the kitchen sink and kiss you until your shoulders drop.
I’d put my palms at your hips and wait until you lean, because I don’t chase what wants to run.
I’d tell you what I’m going to do before I do it so your mind can rest while your body talks.
I’d use my mouth until you forgot your own name.
It takes a full minute for her to respond. Brick.
Yeah.
I’m sitting in the dark like an idiot with goosebumps.
I laugh, quiet, because the whole room feels warmer. Don’t turn on the light. I like you exactly like that.
She waits. I wait with her. The waiting is half the fun when you respect the person on the other end.
Your turn, I type. What would you do to me if you had me against your door?
Bold.
Professional hazard.
She sends a dot, deletes it, sends another, deletes it.
Then, I would tell you not to touch me until I asked.
And I would stand there with my hands on your chest just feeling heat and leather and stubbornness until my day stopped talking.
I would put one hand around the back of your neck and pull you down and bite your bottom lip and make you earn the first real kiss.
“Jesus.” I have to set the phone down and breathe. I pick up the thread. And after I earned it?
Then I would tell you to pick me up.
Yes, ma’am.
Don’t yes-ma’am me unless you mean it.
I mean it.
Good. Then I’d tell you where to put me, she says. And I’d tell you to keep your hat on because I like the shadow it makes.
I look at the dresser. Hat waiting. I can feel the brim without touching it. Old habit, I tell her. The hat stays on until it doesn’t.
And when doesn’t it?
When you take it off.
She doesn’t answer for a few seconds. Then, We’re being ridiculous.
We’re being honest.
You keep saying that.
Because the road is full of people who pretend not to want what they want. It wastes my time.
Is my time being wasted?
Not if we see each other tomorrow, I send. Coffee. Ten minutes. I’ll even let you pick a place that doesn’t smell like hay and regret.
She surprises me. I don’t meet men from the job.
Understood.
She sends a single dot, holds it, deletes it. You’ve been single a long time, she says. Statement, not a question.
Long enough to forget what it’s like to want the same person twice.
And now?
Now I’m remembering fast.
The AC rattles again. I push the curtain open another inch and watch a truck crawl into a slot under my window.
Two boys tumble out laughing, chaps draped over their shoulders like capes.
I’ve been them. I’ve outlived being them.
It feels like staring back through a glass I can’t reach through to warn them about ice baths and mortgage rates.
You ever get tired of this life? she asks.
Rodeo?
The hotels. The faces you don’t keep. The miles. The way every morning starts with a new place and ends feeling exactly the same.
I lean back against the headboard. The question sits on my chest like a weight. Sometimes. Then I get on a bull and remember what my body is for. The rest is noise. The handful of people who matter don’t blend into the wallpaper.
Who matters?
My kids. A few friends who stuck when the crowd changed.
What are you doing right now? she asks.
Looking at my hat and thinking about your hands.
Criminal.
Legal in most states.
What else?
Sitting on a bed that smells like laundry soap and hotel, wishing it smelled like you.
Too much, she says, but she sends a smiling face, and the smile looks like surrender around the edges.
Your turn, I say. What are you doing?
Lying on my couch. Light off. One knee up. Trying to decide if this is a mistake.
Most good things start as mistakes.
That is such a cowboy answer.
I like the things I’ve learned from being one.
Such as?
Long list. I smile to myself. How to wait at a gate until the animal in front of you chooses to trust. How to breathe when breathing feels like a choice you’re losing. How to take a hit and not make the next move about the pain.
And the funny thing is, none of that is about bulls.
Nope.