Read Online The Pioneer Woman by Ree Drummond - Free Book Online Page A

type of man—if not this man specifically—had to be my perfect match. In the short time I’d been with him, I’d seen clear examples of just how complementary our differences were. Where I’d once been quick to fill an empty conversational void with vapid words, I now began to rein it in when I was with him, stopping long enough for the silence between us to work its magic. Where he’d never learned to properly twirl a forkful of linguine around in a largetablespoon, I was right there to show him the light. Where I’d normally be on the phone the second dinner ended, rounding up friends to go have a drink, he’d do the dishes and we’d watch a movie, maybe sit outside on the porch, weather permitting, to listen to coyotes howl, and contemplate life.
    We lived life at entirely different paces. His day began before 5:00 A.M ., and his work was backbreaking, sweaty, grueling. I worked so I’d have something to do during the daylight hours, so I’d have a place to wear my black pumps, and so I could fund a nightlife full of gourmet food and colorful drinks. For Marlboro Man, nightlife meant relaxation, an earned reward for a long day of labor. For me, nightlife meant an opportunity to wear something new and gloss my lips.
    At times the differences concerned me. Could I ever be with a man who’d never, in his entire life, eaten sushi? Could I, a former vegetarian, conceivably spend the rest of my life with a man who ate red meat at every meal? I’d never thought about it before. And, most concerning, could I ever—in a million years—live so far out in the country that I’d have to traverse five miles of gravel road to reach my house?
    The Magic 8-Ball in my head revealed its answer: OUTLOOK NOT SO GOOD .
    And what was I doing even thinking about marriage, anyway? I knew good and well that with Marlboro Man, a rancher who lived on land that had been in his family for years, one thing was a certainty: he was where he was, and any future plans involving him would have to take place on his turf, not mine. It wasn’t as if I could take off for Chicago armed with even the faintest hope that Marlboro Man might relocate there one day. Downtown Chicago isn’t known for its abundant wheat-grazing pasture. His life was on the ranch, where he would likely remain forever. His dad was getting older, which meant Marlboro Man and his brother held the future of the ranch in their capable and calloused hands.
    And so I found myself in the all-too-familiar position of deciding whether to frame my life around the circumstances of the man in my life.I’d faced the same situation with J, when he’d wanted me to move to northern California with him. It had been difficult, but I’d held tightly to my pride and chosen to leave California instead. It had been a personal accomplishment, extricating myself from the comfortable shackles of a four-year relationship, and it had been the right decision. And so would my decision to stick to my plans to move to Chicago now, as hard as it would be to put the skids on my two-week love affair with Marlboro Man. I was a strong woman. I’d done it before—refused to follow a man—and I could do it again. It might sting for a short time, sure, but in the long run I’d feel good about it.
    My phone rang, startling me smooth out of my internal feminist diatribe. It was late. Marlboro Man had dropped me off half an hour earlier; he was probably halfway home. I loved his phone calls. His late-at-night, I’m-just-thinking-about-you, I-just-wanted-to-say-good-night phone calls. I picked up the phone.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œHey,” he said.
    â€œHey,” I replied. You sizzling specimen you.
    â€œWhat’re you doing?” he asked, casually.
    I glanced down at the pile of tank tops I’d just neatly folded. “Oh, just reading a book,” I replied. Liar.
    He continued, “Feel like