RacingQueen: No it’s not. It’s a way to dance around all the important questions and drag everything out. I want to pass all that and go directly to happy together with children.
I stare down at my phone. What the hell is she talking about?
Is that why she’s so enamored with the ‘soul mate’ theme in her books? It takes out the leg work?
I guess it doesn’t matter. I dated Paige and we still ended up being miserable together.
If only reality worked like fiction.
TheBigO: Except you don’t know if you’ll like someone without getting to know them first.
RacingQueen: My favorite color is green. I work at my family’s company. If I’m having a fight, I’ll say my piece right to your face, then hide to sort out my thoughts. But I am willing to change my mind. I like coffee more than tea, yet will drink it to have a conversation. Books over video games. Family over friends. I want to be the center of attention, yet love my privacy.
I watch as her facts keep dropping. I can almost imagine her sitting there thinking.
If only I could picture the person typing.
Because every line she adds is another one I like.
And that’s worrisome. She’s laying out an entire resume of attributes that would make me hire her as a wife in a heartbeat.
If it worked that way.
Yet, she’s careful to leave out specifics so if I was a creep I couldn’t identify her.
Smart girl.
Except, is this what I want?
Before I can even answer that question in my own head, I’m eagerly typing my own pros and cons like I’m on some dating app filling in the blanks.
I guess the worst that happens is she decides she doesn’t like something and she ghosts me.
As the evening continues, she reveals her hopes, dreams, and even her fears.
By the time I’m trying to sleep, I feel as if I know her better than I ever knew Paige.
With the final paperwork in my hands for the pipe job this summer, I know not only will I keep my crew busy, I’ll have enough to buy that new dozer I’ve had my eye on.
The timing couldn’t be better having the project not starting until late April. I’ll have a couple of weeks in Oregon tuning up my roping skills before the first big competition hits in February.
I’ll know pretty quickly if I’m going to qualify for Vegas.
Damn this getting old shit. There’s only a few good years left that I’ll be able to compete.
Then what will I have?
A belt buckle on an empty wall?
Or do I want one filled with photos of the family I want?
RQ has my wheel spinning with ideas that I never thought plausible.
I’m so distracted, I hardly register my phone ringing until I’m leaning to buckle my seatbelt.
“Hello, this is Oliver,” I bark into the speaker as the blue tooth connects.
“Mason McCullough, out at the Black Gulch Ranch,” his deep voice booms through the cab, drowning the diesel hum.
