Dirty Sweet Cowboy

I glare at my phone angrily. What is she trying to do to me? I waited two days before texting her the first time. Just a simple message saying How are you doing? Would you like to get dinner ?

Nothing.

At first I thought she was playing some kind of douchebag trick on me—one that I have to admit I might have done to other girls in the past—so I waited a couple days before texting her again .

And still nothing .

So then I asked her for a quick picture of the necklace, just to see if she was wearing it. Maybe I crossed the line with that one. Maybe she thought I was checking up on her or something, and so she didn’t want to respond in order teach me a lesson .

I admit, I may have done that kind of thing too .

In the past .

But after eight messages sent two or three days apart, and nothing sent back, I started to get worried. I stalked her on Facebook a little bit. I just wanted to make sure she hadn’t moved to Argentina or something. And there she was, sharing a triple-sized ice cream sundae with Bea, grinning and happy as ever. Absolutely glowing .

It made my stomach hurt .

So now it’s been ten messages, over two weeks, and she’s not dead or hospitalized or anything like that .

But scrolling back to her other Facebook posts, one kind of stands out. In it she’s leaning on a stack of boxes, standing in the middle of an empty room. Did she get a new apartment? She did mention that, but then she didn’t ask me for referrals or anything. Did she move ?

Before I have time to think it through, I email the HR department at my web media company and innocently ask for a spreadsheet with updated contact information for all the employees. I’m perfectly within my rights, I’m sure. Legally, anyway .

And there it is, her new address. About four blocks from here, in a perfectly respectable building that I don’t own. Well, that’s clever .

Even though I want to pretend I’m not going to, I head over there immediately. It’s half past eight on a Thursday night. She might be home, right? Or we could just happen to bump into each other in the lobby? Or, maybe the building is for sale. Maybe I want to buy it. I’m always interested in new real estate investments …

Who am I fooling ?

My mouth is dry and my heart is pounding in my throat through the whole walk. Fog has rolled in from the bay and it soaks through my clothes, chilling me completely. September in San Francisco is dreary at best, but it’s merely a harbinger of everything that happens over the winter. Still, something propels me forward, some undeniable urgency .

I knock at the door gently, standing to the side of the keyhole. The hallway is modest but clean, with recently installed carpeting and an unblemished chair rail. Her apartment is at the end, and she’s hung a homey wreath of dried flowers on the door. That strikes me as adorably poignant somehow .

No answer .

I knock again, listening intently until I hear shuffling sounds. The deadbolt unlatches and I swallow hard. The do

or opens just a couple inches, just far enough for her bright blue eyes to blink innocently at me from the gap .

“You’re home,” I say instead of hello for some reason. I sound gruff, like a fairytale character .

“I am,” she says, slightly sarcastically .

I shift from foot to foot, unsure what to say next .

“Well… I guess I just wanted to make sure you are okay,” I mutter uncomfortably. “I’m glad you’re okay .”

She squints at me, huffing her breath out through her nose. Without another word, she turns away, letting the door swing open behind her .

I pause in the foyer to just be polite. She walks away toward the kitchen, adorable in a pair of comfy-looking sweatpants with Cal State embroidered across the butt .

“Do you want some water?” she calls out. “Tea? Diet Coke? I’m sorry I don’t have any champagne or anything .”

She turns back toward me, leaning one hand against the counter. The sapphire pendant glitters brightly from between her collarbones .

“You’re still wearing it,” I observe quietly .

She sighs, her fingers drifting toward the pendant absentmindedly. “Well, it is beautiful,” she mumbles. “My birthstone and all .”