Chapter 8
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I frown at the conversation on my phone and take another swig of my beer.
Clearly, I’m a bit rusty when it comes to talking to women if I’ve already put my foot in my mouth after a handful of messages.
I don’t want to woo her or anything, considering she’s a goddamn stranger, but I don’t want to leave such a terrible impression. I was raised better than that.
Me: Cause I’ve been here staring at my phone like a wounded pup waiting to properly explain myself.
It’s been over an hour since I replied to her, and considering she’s made an effort to let me know when she’s seen each one of my messages before now, it’s safe to say that she hasn’t yet since there isn’t a tiny Read showing.
I’d been so busy this past year that texting more than a handful of people just wasn’t a priority.
If it weren’t for the crew members with me every day, I probably wouldn’t have spoken to anyone when I wasn’t onstage.
I didn’t care about the isolation back then, but after a couple of weeks at home, my newly formed habit has been a nuisance.
I could hardly make it through one fifteen-minute conversation earlier with the new farmhands Grandpa snagged after the harvest season ended.
The shop is hot, the heavy portable heater pumping off thick waves of warmth to the right of me.
My hands are dirty, oil and grease caked beneath my nails.
It’ll take hours to get them completely clean, and I don’t have it in me after the day I’ve had.
The empty plate at my feet that used to be covered with my grandma’s famous gingersnap cookies is a testament to that.
Like some terrible joke, there are three pieces of broken-down equipment inside the shop, with another one waiting outside in the snow.
I’m the only mechanic on the ranch right now after we lost the other two only a few days before I got back home.
None of us can blame them for leaving, not after the sudden family death that struck them.
It’s just me now. Me and a million fucking things to do in too few hours a day.
I finish my beer and set the bottle on the ground beside the plate. Stretching my legs out in front of me, I ignore the hardness of the concrete beneath my ass and close my eyes.
Before I fall asleep sitting up, my phone vibrates in my lap, and I snap my eyes open, blinking to clear the promise of sleep away.
16045557841: Explain then.
Ignoring that Caleb would give me a verbal chastising about replying too quickly, I type out a reply and send it without a second thought.
Me: I’m not the best talker. Texter either. I didn’t mean to be offensive. You looked just fine.
16045557841: Maybe I shouldn’t have bought that dress then. No woman wants to look just fine, stranger.
I swallow my discomfort.
Me: Shit. Sorry. It was a nice dress. Can we move on now?
Tiny bubbles appear as she types, and I exhale slowly, a pinch growing in my back from sitting this way for so long. Shifting, I lean back against the steel bench and cross my ankles.
16045557841: Move onto what? We can go our separate ways now.
I take my hat off and drop it on my knee, raising a hand to my hair.
It’s warm, damp from the heat and being smothered all day.
The hollow feeling in my chest becomes too hard to ignore as I reread her text.
The feeling is loneliness, for fuck’s sake.
I’m lonely, and talking to this stranger, even if I was doing nothing more than sticking my foot in my mouth, helped distract me from that feeling.
I hate that I don’t want to stop talking to her.
Me: Let’s talk. Just for tonight.
I send the text without giving myself a chance to be embarrassed by my desperation.
16045557841: Just for tonight.
My relief is instant, filling that hole inside of me enough to soothe the ache.
Me: Will you give me your name? Just so I can change your contact.
16045557841: What about a nickname instead?
Me: Sure.
A pause, like she’s thinking about which name to give me.
16045557841: What about banana?
Me: Alright. You can call me Bo.
I don’t give myself a chance to change the name before sending the message. The history of that nickname isn’t anything I’d like to think about right now. I shouldn’t have given it to her, but it’s not like she’s going to tell anybody. She won’t have a chance to. This is only for tonight.
I change her contact name and smile slightly at the ridiculousness of it.
Banana: Hi Bo. You still haven’t told me if you’re an old creeper.
Me: Would an old creeper actually tell you if he were an old creeper?
Banana: No I guess he wouldn’t. He probably wouldn’t send me a pic of his hot bod though.
I laugh, surprising myself. The rough sound fills the shop before disappearing.
Me: Are you saying that in order to not be an old creeper, I have to have a quote-unquote hot bod?
Banana: Well . . . do you?
Me: Maybe.
Banana: Prove it then.
With a glance at my clothes, I wince. Dirty jeans, even dirtier boots, and a grey long-sleeve with splashes of oil across the front and what I can’t tell is either mud or cow shit on the bottom hem.
I haven’t been to a gym in years. I was pushed too hard on the road to have time for breaks long enough to work out, and back home .
. . I think my grandparents would find it offensive if I deemed the hard labour here boring enough to seek out a gym.
I’m tall, and while I might not have stacks upon stacks of abdominal muscles, I think I’m pretty built. I haven’t had a woman tell me that in a long, long time, though. Long enough that I don’t know how I’d take it if I heard it now.
Me: Are you trying to flirt with me?
Banana: You wish. I’m merely trying to stay safe.
Me: By looking at a rack of abs?
Banana: A girls gotta eat.
Again, I hear myself laugh, and the sound is still as odd the second time. Fuck, that’s depressing.
Me: Who am I to keep you starving then?
As soon as she reads the message and doesn’t reply, I know she’s waiting for me to send a photo first. I have no clue what to do now.
After another sweep of my eyes over my body, I’m saying fuck it and positioning my hat over the dark stain on the hem of my shirt before opening the camera app.
Flipping it to front-facing, I extend my arm and try to get as much of my body into the shot as possible, careful not to include my face.
Screw it all to hell, but I snap too many pictures before choosing the one that looks the least awkward and sending it. It takes her a minute to reply, and for those long sixty seconds, I contemplate blocking her and trying to forget the past few minutes.
Banana: Well howdy there farmer.
Me: Nobody actually says howdy around here.
Banana: Tough crowd. Did you get in a fight with a jug of oil today? God your clothes are dirty.
Me: I’ve been dirtier.
Banana: Kinky. Where does one go to buy a pair of those boots? I’ve never had a pair before.
I store that piece of information away, even if I’ll never need it.
Me: Depends where you’re from.
Banana: Nuh-uh. Just because you have a nice looking body doesn’t mean you aren’t old nor a creeper. Nice try.
Me: Since a photo didn’t prove anything, the demand for it was just to get your rocks off huh?
Banana: My rocks are still very much on, you filthy cowboy.
Me: I don’t think I’ve been called a filthy cowboy before. I like it.
Not nearly as much as I like having a stranger tell me I have a nice-looking body. Albeit a stranger with great legs and curves for days, from what I remember from that quick glance at the photo. I haven’t looked at it since. It feels like an invasion of her privacy to do that.
Banana: I aim to please. Now, tell me how many cowboy hats you have. I’m going to guess and say . . .
Banana: Fifteen.
Me: Not even close.
Banana: Twenty?
Me: Three. They’re hats not underwear.
Banana: You have twenty pairs of underwear?
Me: Do you always turn everything into a question?
Banana: I do when it involves conversing with a stranger.
Me: Is that something you do often?
Some tiny, annoying part of me hopes that it isn’t.
Dammit, I need to get out more. Do anything besides hide in this shop and ignore the world outside of it.
Cows and tractors are shit conversationalists, and while my throat still kills, I need to talk to someone.
Someone who isn’t judging me for something they’ll never understand or pretending to want to speak in order to get something.
I don’t know when my life turned into such a fucking embarrassment, but I need to figure it out. Soon.
Banana: No. My sister would actually kill me if she knew I was doing this.
Me: Older or younger sister?
Banana: Older. Only by a few years. Do you have siblings?
Me: No. I’m an only child.
Banana: What about pets?
Me: Not technically. You?
Banana: No, but I’ve been contemplating getting a cat. Thoughts on them?
Me: I’ve never actually had a cat as a pet.
Banana: No offense, filthy cowboy, but your life sounds kind of boring.
Me: Because I don’t have siblings or a cat?
My eyelids droop as I stare at the time at the top of the screen. It’s late, too late for me to be awake when I have to get up in five hours. Is she in the same time zone as I am?
I struggle to keep my eyes open, waiting for her next message to pop up, but with the steady thrum of the heater and the tick of the clock on the shop wall behind me, I’m dead to the world before I get a chance to see them the two of them come through.
Banana: Call it a gut instinct. It’s a shame we only agree to tonight, because I could have helped bring a little sparkle to it.
Banana: Goodbye Bo.