Read The Pioneer Woman for Free Online Page B

to move to Chicago—home of the Cubs and Michigan Avenue and the Elevated Train. Why had I allowed myself to stick my toe in this water?
    And why did the water have to feel so, so good?
    I pulled out of Marlboro Man’s gravel driveway and turned right, onto the dirt road. Taking in a deep breath and preparing myself for thequiet drive ahead, my thoughts turned suddenly to J. God only knew where he was at that point. I wouldn’t have known if he’d tried to call all evening; in the mid-1990s there was no “missed call” feature on car phones. Neither would I have known whether J had made a surprise visit to my parents’ house with a chain saw or an ax, as they’d left town that evening for a trip…but then, J never really was the chain saw type.
    Winding around the dusty county road in the pitch-black of night, I found myself equal parts content and unsettled—a strange combination brought on by the events of the day—and I began thinking about my move to Chicago and my plans to pursue law school. Was this the right choice? Was it a fit? Or was it just a neat and tidy plan, something concrete and objective? The easy road? An escape from creativity? An escape from risk?
    The loud ring of my car phone disrupted my introspection. Startled, I picked up the phone, certain it would be J calling from the airport after, probably, persistently calling all night. Another phone confrontation . But at least this time I’d be ready. I’d just had a four-hour dose of Marlboro Man. I could handle anything.
    â€œHello?” I said, readying myself.
    â€œHey, you,” the voice said. The voice. That voice. The one that had infiltrated my dreams.
    It was Marlboro Man, calling to say he missed me, a mere five minutes after I’d pulled away from his house. And his words weren’t scripted or canned, like the obligatory roses sent after a date. They were impulsive, spur-of-the-moment—the words of a man who’d had a thought and acted on it within seconds. A man who, in his busy life on the ranch, had neither the time nor the inclination to wait to call a girl or play it cool. A man who liked a woman and called her just as she left his house, simply to tell her he wished she hadn’t.
    â€œI miss you, too,” I said, though words like that were difficult for me. I’d conditioned myself to steer clear of them after so many years with J,whose phlegmatic nature had bled over into almost every other aspect of his life. He was not affectionate, and in the four-plus years I’d known him, I couldn’t recall one time he’d called me after a date to say he missed me. Even after I’d left California months earlier, his calls had come every three or four days, sometimes less frequently than that. And while I’d never considered myself a needy sort of gal, the complete dearth of verbal affirmation from J had eventually become paradoxically loud.
    I hung up the phone after saying good night to Marlboro Man, this isolated cowboy who hadn’t had the slightest problem picking up the phone to say “I miss you.” I shuddered at the thought of how long I’d gone without it. And judging from the electrical charges searing through every cell of my body, I realized just how fundamental a human need it really is.
    It was as fundamental a human need, I would learn, as having a sense of direction in the dark. I suddenly realized I was lost on the long dirt road, more lost than I’d ever been before. The more twists and turns I took in my attempt to find my bearings, the worse my situation became. It was almost midnight, and it was cold, and each intersection looked like the same one repeating over and over. I found myself struck with an illogical and indescribable panic—the kind that causes you to truly believe you’ll never, ever escape from where you are, even though you almost always will. As I drove, I remembered every horror movie