The Pioneer Woman Read Free Page A

idea! He’d just graduated from law school and was most likely trying to decide where he was going next. Yes, of course. Kev. Finally. We were adults now, and we were familiar, comfortable, and free. The possibilities rushed wildly into my imagination, and within seconds it all became perfectly clear to me: Kev and I, together, could be the perfect solution. I already knew everything there was to know about him; there’d be no nasty secrets hiding under the surface, and we wouldn’t even have to go through that nettlesome flirtation/courting stage, an appealing prospect given the dates I’d had. Rather than starting all over, Kev and I could just pick up where we’d left off; I could be packed within two days and join him in whatever big-city locale he’d picked: Chicago, Philadelphia, D.C. I didn’t care. I had to get away from Mr. B.’s lips. And his life insurance policy.
    â€œHey…it’s Kev,” the voice on the other end of the line said. He sounded exactly the same.
    â€œKev!” I said, with a combination of excitement, anticipation, nostalgia, and hope.
    â€œHey, guess what?” he said. My imagination ran wild: He’s gotten a job and wants me to come with him. Go ahead, Kev. I’m ready. And the answer is a resounding yes.
    â€œI’m getting married,” Kev said. My knees went weak.
    The next day, I began making plans for Chicago.
    A month later, I met the cowboy in the smoky bar and he turned my soul to mush. In the four months that followed, I would continue to make preparations to move. While I’d occasionally find myself haunted by the rugged Marlboro Man character I’d met in the J-Bar that Christmas, I continued to tell myself it was a good thing he’d never called. I didn’t need anything derailing my resolve to get back to civilization.
    Back where normal people lived.
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    I DECIDED TO stick close to home through my oldest brother Doug’s wedding that April and leave for Chicago a couple of weeks later. I’d always intended for my time at home to be a pit stop, anyway; before too long, Chicago would be my new home. I’d always loved it there—the pulse, the climate, the cute Catholic boys. Moving there seemed such a natural fit, and it would be a great step toward my separating permanently from J, who was technically still in the picture, albeit two thousand miles away.
    J and I had not officially broken up. I’d been away from California for months—we’d even visited each other at our respective locations here and there. But in the weeks leading up to my brother’s wedding, I’d been distancing myself. The more time I spent away from him, the more I realized just how much of our relationship had been based on my dependence on him during my years in Los Angeles. He was from Orange County, born and bred in Newport Beach, and in J (his parents, too), I’d found a cozy, secure home so far away from my own. I had a place to go on weekends, when the USC campus was a ghost town; I had a family that was always glad to see me when I visited; I’d found a place that was familiar. Comfortable. Easy.
    It was around this time that J began calling and pressuring me to move back to California—something I knew wasn’t going to happen, though I hadn’t yet mustered up the courage to tell him for good. Chicago would provide that opportunity; I just had to hold out a little longer before I’d break the news I was going. J wanted to be together again, wanted to make it work, wanted to work toward getting married. Work toward getting married. There was something about the use of the word work in that context that just didn’t seem to fit. But J kept at it; he wanted things back to the way they’d been. Back when I was in California. Back when I was all his.
    But I was over J. My eclectic assortment of dates over the previous few months had only served to cement that I