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“I have a dog.” He laughs, but it isn’t pure. It’s tainted with the truth he’ll never admit.
“Are you genuinely happy all alone? I think it’s sad. And I don’t believe you have a dog.”
“I do too,” he balks. “His name’s Roy.”
I laugh, but more in annoyance than because he’s funny. “Oh, right. Like the dog food. Of course.”
“No, like Roy Acuff.” I tilt my head, trying to remember who the hell Roy Acuff is. I’ve heard the name. “The country singer,” he helps me out at the same time I remember.
“Oh…” I scrunch my nose. “The old country singer,” I say, emphasizing the word old. “My grammy loved him.”
“Me, too.” He smiles.
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
I shrug. “I didn’t take you for a country music lover, that’s all.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
His insistent stare makes me squirm. “You’re … Well … Er … you’re not actually a cowboy.”
He looks down, stroking his top lip with his index finger. His jaw tightens as he faintly shakes his head before he asks, “Is that so?”
The expression on his face worries me. I’m not sure what I’ve said to irritate him, but it’s obvious I have. “I didn’t mean to offend you. My friends say you’re not a real cowboy. I guess I let them influence me.”
“And why exactly do your friends assume I’m not a real cowboy?”
“Because you don’t wear your buckles, or boots, or a big hat.”
He draws circles on the hood of my car with his middle finger, tapping the metal a few times before he lets out a loud huff of air. “Not everyone
fits perfectly into a little box. That’s what’s wrong with people today.” His voice rises, but it’s not the volume that alarms me. It’s the agitation vibrating in his tone. “Can’t we accept people for who they are?”
I flinch at his words as they hit straight to the gut. I’ve always thought of myself as an accepting person. Am I? “I’m sorry. I only meant everyone’s a certain type of person and—”
“Type, do you actually believe that?”
“Yeah, of course. We’re all a certain type of person.”
There’s anger in his laughter, but his eyes smile. “Okay, and what type of person are you?”
“I think I’m a good girl. The responsible type. One who makes smart choices and does the right thing.”
He shakes the bottle of Jack. “Says the girl drinkin’ whiskey with a complete stranger in the middle of nowhere. Incredibly responsible.”
I’ve dug this hole unintentionally. Every time I open my mouth it gets deeper. What am I doing here? This isn’t me. “Drinkin’ alone with strange men isn’t somethin’ I do every day. In fact, never. We should probably go.”
I slide forward, prepared to leap from the hood of my Mustang and drive back to Dakota’s. Battle’s grip on my arm stops me.
“No, I don’t wanna go yet. You bein’ here with me is exactly my point. People don’t come with labels that tell ya what’s inside. We create expectations of who we’re supposed to be, and how we’re supposed to act, but eventually, who we are surfaces. We do somethin’ unexpected, like tonight. These are the moments that make us unique.”
I pull my arm free and smile, although it’s small, because I’m feeling like a self-righteous jerk. I know all about those expectations and what it can do to a person who’s constantly trying to attain them, but I also have doubts about relinquishing control. I have to justify my beliefs, or at least I feel like I should. “Or these moments are nothin’ more than bad decisions that lead to trouble and jeopardize our future. And if that’s the case, I don’t want to be unique.”
He laughs softly. “But you are. We all are. You shouldn’t try to fight who you are, or label yourself. We’re always changin’. Conformin’ isn’t nearly as beautiful as soarin’ through one’s own sweet way. Be true to yourself, sweetheart. Don’t live your life for anyone else.”
As uncomfortable as I feel, he’s right, although my brain struggles with accepting his words. Tirelessly planning out my life has always meant setting expectations and labeling people, including myself. It began in elementary school with kids my father labeled as “those kids”, meaning kids who he expected would drag me down, although he never explained further. In high school, “those kids” were the druggies and the partiers; kids I knew to stay away from if I wanted to maintain my four-point-oh average and get into KU.
