The Pioneer Woman Read Free

my hometown, was my first voyage into Post-J Dating. We had four dates and laughed the whole time, but he was way too old—nearly thirty —and probably found me flighty. After Tracy came Jack, a British assistant tennis pro at the country club. He was gorgeous and I loved his accent, but at two years my junior, he was way too young. Next came an old boyfriend from church camp who lived in a faraway town and heard I was back in Oklahoma. Sweet, but a no-go for the long term. A couple of other miscellaneous, unremarkable dinner dates followed.
    That’s when I met Mr. B., a man sixteen years my senior and a three handicap, and not a half-bad kisser.
    That’s basically the extent of what Mr. B. and I did together—kissed. Tracy had sprung for a couple of movies and a dinner or two. Jack and I had taken a couple of walks with his dog. But Mr. B. and I just sat around and smooched. It was all his idea. It was as if he’d never heard of the concept before me, and my lips were in a constant state of chap. It was great, though; there were no strings, no risks, no great rewards. But after a month, I was frankly tired of having to buy so much lip balm, so I delicately broke things off. He called me crying the next night, telling me he’d just added me as the sole beneficiary on his life insurance policy. Sometime during the course of the month, Mr. B. had decided that I was The One, the answer to all of his never-married prayers. He’d figured we’d wind up getting married, he said, and he just couldn’t believe I was breaking up with him when we were so clearly perfect for each other. He’d already begun planning our marriage, apparently, right down to the reception menu and the middle name of our redheaded, blue-eyed, fair-skinned third-born child. He wasn’t wasting any time.
    Mr. B. carried on and on and cried—blubbered—for two whole hours. And as I listened, trying my best to be gentle and compassionate, I actually found myself missing J, who never was much the kissing type or the demonstrator-of-love-and-affection type but on the other hand wasn’t prone to making illogical, ridiculous plans and breaking down in tears.
    This, in turn, made me miss city life and start getting serious about Chicago. As eager as I’d been to flee L.A., I knew, based on my brief time at home that an urban environment was really where I belonged. I missed the conveniences, the coffee shops on every corner, and the bookstores open till midnight. I missed the take-out food galore and the little makeup shops and the Korean nail salons where ladies would eagerly swarm me and rub my shoulders in five-minute intervals until I ran out of money.
    I missed the anonymity—the ability to run to the market without running into my third-grade teacher.
    I missed the nightlife—the knowledge that if I wanted to, there was always an occasion to get dressed up and head out for dinner and drinks.
    I missed the restaurants—the Asian, the Thai, the Italian, the Indian. I was already tired of mashed potatoes and canned green beans.
    I missed the culture—the security that comes from being on the touring schedule of the major Broadway musicals.
    I missed the shopping—the funky boutiques, the eclectic shops, the browsing.
    I missed the city. I needed to get on the ball.
    That’s when Kev called. Kev. My first love, my first obsession with anything that wasn’t related to Billy Idol or Duran Duran. We’d dated in high school and had remained in deep, abiding, you-were-mine-first love, off and on, for the previous eight years. We’d been involved with other people during that time, of course, but Kev had always, always been there. He’d been mine, after all, before he’d been anyone else’s. And I’d been his. And seeing his name on caller ID the evening I broke things off with Mr. B. was like lifeblood being pumped into my veins.
    Kev—what a brilliant