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

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.

       Chapter 5

      Della

      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.

      “Chuck has a girlfriend?” I turn to look at both Easton and BJ, whoever wants to answer.

      “When it suits him,” BJ says as he gets up and clears the rest of the dessert dishes. “I have to jet, too. I’ve got a group project meeting on campus and I can’t afford to drop anymore marks. Don’t wait up.”

      He leaves, and I spin my fork around on the table, thinking about what BJ said about Chuck and Janine.

      “You okay?” Easton asks.

      I nod, not really. “Does ‘when it suits him’ mean he cheats on his girlfriend?”

      Easton’s expression makes it seem as if he wants to answer honestly but knows I won’t like it, which technically is confirmation that it’s true.

      “Does his girlfriend know?”

      “If she doesn’t know about at least half of it, she’s not that bright.” Easton stands and walks over to the kitchen to hand-wash the pots and pans. He sneaks another brownie straight out of the pan and pops it into his mouth.

      “I don’t want to judge, but why would she tolerate that?”

      He shrugs and places the pot upside down on the drying rack. “They’ve been dating for three years. And they’re probably going to get married. Maybe they both want to live the best of both worlds while they’re still young.”

      Part of that does make sense—take risks and experience life to the fullest so you have no regrets when you get older and settle down. But the other part is really hard for me to accept. How could you be physically intimate with someone you don’t care about when it hurts the person you do care about? I have no experience to reference it against. Maybe I would feel differently if I were in their shoes. I ponder the ethics of it for a while, but then the fact that Easton’s hair is loose distracts me. When he moves it fans out like feathers. Wild and delicate at the same time. Like visual poetry. I pick up my brownie with my bare hand and bite into it as I watch him clean the counter. Both are delicious.

      After the kitchen is spotless again, he sits back at the table and offers me some wine.

      “No, thank you,” I say, referring to the wine. Then I study his face. He can obviously feel me doing it because he looks up, waiting. “Do you cheat on your girlfriend?”

      His eyes remain locked on mine, and with the most intense expression I have ever witnessed in another person, he says, “I don’t currently have a girlfriend. And I don’t cheat on anything.”

      Whoa. Oh my goodness. Why does it feel like a supernova just blasted through me? My heart is palpitating. I think he can tell. He’s looking at me so seriously. He can read my thoughts. Is that why the other guys left? Is it that obvious that I’m crushing on Easton? Do they not realize that leaving me alone with him is not actually doing me any favors? I’m sweating like a maniac. Maybe I should go for a walk. He’d probably offer to escort me. He definitely would, like a knight in shining armor.

      “Homework,” I blurt out.

      His eyebrows raise, amused at my weirdness again.

      “I have reading. Tomorrow’s class. I’m going to my room. Reading in my room. For homework. Then sleeping.” I stand and the chair almost topples over behind me, but he stretches his arm out and catches it before it falls. Then he pulls it back so I can attempt a more graceful exit. “Goodnight.”

      “Night.” He chuckles before taking a sip of wine.

      Unfortunately, he’s probably watching me as I walk away. It’s incredibly difficult to command my legs to function properly when I know someone is possibly assessing each step. The hypervigilance makes me overthink an action which is ingrained in most people by approximately twelve months of age but doesn’t come particularly natural to me. Over-thinking is bad.