I’m left surrounded by kids, dust, cowboys, and the sharp, sinking feeling that nothing in my life will be the same again.
3
GRACE
Cody shows me to my room, which is big and airy, with yellowing lace at the windows and a plaid comforter that swallows the mattress. My suitcase has been placed on the bed, and two towels are stacked neatly next to it. “Your bathroom is there,” he says, waving a hand toward a door in the corner.
My eyes widen in relief, and he smiles, flashing his sexy dimples again. “We have some modern facilities, you know.”
“I didn’t…” I don’t bother finishing the sentence when he wiggles his eyebrows and sweeps his hand through his shaggy brown hair.
“I know. Dinner will be ready in five. You arrived right on time.”
I reach for my suitcase, unzipping it with a flourish. “I’ll freshen up.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”
When Cody leaves the room, he takes his reassuring, warm energy with him, leaving me alone with myoverwhelmed self. I grab my wash bag and head into the bathroom, finding it old but clean. I guess they don’t have a housekeeper out here, which means one or more of those big men downstairs handle the domestic duties for this monolith of a ranch house.
Impressive.
I look different in the tarnished mirror above this dark wood vanity than at home. My hair is still miraculously in place, and my makeup, which is nearing the end of its life, is still perfectly acceptable in this setting. Maybe it’s the softer light that streams through the high window that’s taken some of the harshness from my features. Or the relaxed environment that’s removed a pinch from around my mouth. Interesting.
Dinner smells like heaven as the scent of roasting meat wafts through the open door. I start to think about how I’ll approach the research for this article. There are definite pros and cons to a more formal approach. Sitting each of the men down, one by one, to answer the list of questions Rianna had already drafted would be simple. I’d get eleven individual responses, which may or may not be unified. It’d provide the structure to get to the root of their motivations and rationale, but now I’m here, amongst the noise and chaos, it suddenly feels wrong. These men are always on their feet, dealing with the practicalities of their work and home lives. Treating them like academics or celebrities doesn’t fit, and I worry it won’t produce anything more engaging than I could have achieved over the phone without following Moses into the desert, risking life and limb.
The other option may be more dangerous. Follow them around to get to know them in their own habitat. Form slower opinions and grow the story more organically.
That feels closer to what I need to do, but it’s risky. If they don’t open up before I leave, there’s a chance I won’t get what I need to make this tale of old-fashioned love meet the modern world structure in time.
I’m the editor-in-chief. I can’t fail at this.
But I feel rusty. It’s been a while since I've done anything but review the work of others. What if I’ve lost my edge?
I rearrange my hair, pat my nose with some powder, and wash my hands in the sink, letting the cool water travel over my wrists. Then, when I feel more composed, I venture into the hallway and back down the stairs toward what sounds like the spectators at a football game.
I’m already missing the peaceful tranquility of my condo, and that’s before I reach the kitchen.
***
Dinner feels like chaos.
The long farmhouse table is packed. Eleven men, six kids, and one overwhelmed city girl sitting at the edge like she body-swapped into someone else’s life, cram the space. It’s like my childhood table, except three times as long, with eleven times the booming voices and testosterone.
I glance around at the sea of handsome faces engaged in filling their plates and those of any adjacent small people.
I don’t belong here, and yet, here I am with a plate full of roast and cornbread on the side, lukewarm sweet tea in front of me, and the distant memory of my real life fading fast.
Across from me, a kid makes mashed potato mountains with meat dinosaurs and gravy lava. Beside me, Levi elbows Cody, muttering something that makes them laugh. Loudly. Like they’ve done it a hundred times before and give zero shits that I’m currently an audience.
The men pass food without speaking. They move around each other like parts of a well-oiled machine, fluid and practiced. There’s no struggle for dominance inside this rhythm that feels like a dance routine I don’t know the steps to.
This isn’t just dinner, and these aren’t just cowboys. It’s a family unit. A whole life.
And I’m sitting here in a pencil skirt, trying not to drop gravy on my stupid fancy blouse or forget the sea of names I should have worked out a system to remember.
I think I’ve lost track of who’s who already.
There’s Cody. And Corbin. And Conway.
