“I knew you’d say that.”
“Do they have Wi-Fi? I’ll book a flight right now just to watch the car crash or, rather, the manure heap you’re about to walk into.”
“Not a cult, apparently. But maybe cult-adjacent?”
“I think cults usually involve one weirdo who wants to live out his King Solomon era. Listen, I fell in love with ten men and walked away from reporting on vibrating underwear to cover refugee justice cases. I’m the poster child foranything can happen.”
I laugh. “That was still the most unexpected life pivot I’ve ever seen.”
“Right? Don’t underestimate cowboy magic, Grace. If I can go from ‘Best Lube for Sensitive Skin’ to exposing political corruption and harem time with a combined hundred inches of man perfection, you can, too.”
“I’m not looking for a harem, Allie. If I could find even one guy who wasn’t more species-linked to dogs than humans, I’d be happy.”
She snorts. “Famous last words.”
“I mean it. I want to do the job and come back in one piece. No horse-riding, no tobacco chewing, no falling in love, and definitely no kid-wrangling.”
“Sure, sure. Call me after your first hayride when you’re sore and half in love with the one who smells like leather and sin. Oh, wait! They’re all going to smell like leather and sin. And cow shit. Don’t forget that.”
She’s cackling, and I shake my head even though she can’t see. I also don’t bother to hide my smile from whoever is passing my fishbowl office. “You’re impossible.”
“My many, many, many men would disagree. And anyway, what have you got to lose?”
“My last shred of dignity? My last speck of hope in humanity. My self-respect. My goddamned sanity?”
“Go get your story, Grace. And hey, maybe this one’ll change your life, too.”
“It’s doubtful, but good to hear your voice, Allie. Let’s not leave it so long next time.”
“Don’t make me read the cowboy story to find out what happened. I want it blow-by-blow from the horse’s mouth, pun absolutely intended.”
“Nah… an editor’s job’s about preserving readership numbers. You’ll have to buy it like everyone else.”
We both giggle, then say our goodbyes, and I hang up, still smiling. When I glance back at my laptop, my heart skips a beat.
Eleven cowboys. One woman.
I’ve made worse decisions after worse sex.
And if nothing else, at least, they hopefully won’t call me Brandy.
***
I’m packed and ready to go, but before I set out on my first reporting job for eighteen months, I head over to my mom’s house to leave her keys to my apartment in case of an emergency.
There’s a bike in the yard, the screen door is open, and I already hear shouting from inside.
The second I enter the house, I’m swarmed by kids.
Squealing, sticky, wide-eyed kids in superhero pajamas and socks that don’t match. Jessie hugs my knees.Christopher shouts, “Grace is here!” like I’m Beyoncé. Davy, wearing mismatched shoes, grabs my hand and tells me about his new hamster, even though I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s holding a turtle.
My mom appears in the doorway, flour on her cheek and a dish towel over one shoulder.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she says, smiling. “You stayin’ for breakfast?”
I shake my head. “On my way to an assignment. Passing through.”
“You sure? I’m making pancakes.”
