Page 16 of Eight Seconds

“You’d probably be more comfortable if you weren’t wearing jeans and a button-down,” Charlotte rationalizes from Oklahoma. I can just make out her setting up our pre-selected tutorial video on her laptop. She’s going to follow the video, and we’re going to follow her. But after watching it through last night before I fell asleep, I’m inclined to think she’s right about Travis’ attire. I’m in a soft tee and a ratty pair of basketball shorts I only usually wear to and from the shower house. I’ve secured my hair with a backward baseball cap.

“These are just my clothes,” Travis grouses, but at least he removes his boots. “Since when do I need to be wearing something else? These do just fine all the rest of the time…”

He continues mumbling under his breath, but looks at my phone expectantly. I follow his gaze and see Charlotte standing with her feet shoulder-width apart, patiently waiting. The pair officially met last week in Boise, and having my best friend and my girl banter with each other like brother and sister is something I didn’t know I needed in my life.

“Ready?” she asks gently, but I can hear the laughter she’s trying to hold back at my best friend’s petulance. At our nods, instructions play from the video, and I watch, fascinated, as Charlotte bends and twists with near effortless grace through the movements.

Twelve minutes later, the novelty has worn off. I’m sweating. My legs shake. And I have a view of my underside I thought only doctors were privy to in extreme circumstances. Travis sits across from me, a cold can of soda in one hand, leaning against the side of my trailer. He gave up nine minutes ago and has delighted in my struggles ever since.

“No, no,” he directs, a finger waving lazily in my direction. “That arm has to threadthroughyour legs.”

“If I do that, I’m going to fall on my face!” The arm in question is the only thing keeping me balanced at the moment, and I’m only ten seconds into a thirty-second hold of this pretzel-from-hell pose. The serenity the instructor promises through my phone’s speakers is nowhere in sight, and I’ve almost had it with this demented version of Twister.

“Travis is right; you’re supporting yourself with the wrong arm, Wild,” Charlotte says. I chance a quick look at her, and she’s calmly holding the pose. Slow and steady breaths can be heard, and she gives me an encouraging smile. I fix my pose—slowly—and am pleased when I remain steady. “There you go.”

“Thanks, baby,” I reply sweetly. Travis lets out a loud scoff from his spot.

“This is bullshit,” he yells, and I pull out of the position I’m in to look at his outburst. His words seem full of heat, but there’s a playful smirk quirking up the corner of his lips. On the screen, Charlotte abandons her position, too, and then walks to pick up her phone. I mirror her actions, picking up my own from the trailer steps before turning the camera so she can see my best friend throw a mock tantrum. My heart swells with laughter and warmth as Travis continues, “I’mthe one who said you were doing it wrong, but you only changed whenshepointed it out. Can’t believe the day has finally come: Wilder McCoy’s got himself a girlfriend. Damn.”

* * *

I look at the calendar on the inside door of my closet. There’s one week until the Calgary Stampede. One week until I get to see Charlotte again. I close my eyes, remembering the way it felt to hold and kiss her two nights ago after the rodeo in Cheyenne. It was only the second time in nearly six weeks I’ve seen her, and it wasn’t long enough to satisfy my cravings for her.

As if my longing was felt in the universe, my phone vibrates on the nightstand, and Charlotte’s contact photo fills the screen. I close the bureau door before crossing the three steps to pick up.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Cowboy.” Her voice is sweet and low, and I find myself pressing the phone closer to my ear.

“You okay?” I can’t help but ask. It’s not the middle of the night, but it is late. I sit on the side of my bed, then swing my legs up to lie back more comfortably.

“Yeah,” Charlotte answers. There’s the sound of fabric rustling, and she lets out a long sigh. “I’m hiding in my bedroom at home, like any sane grown adult when faced with spending time with their parents.”

There’s no humor in her words, even though she finishes the sentence with a chuckle. In the weeks we’ve been apart, she’s gone back to her childhood home twice, and both times she’s been melancholy when we talk. I haven’t pushed her to explain, but I get the sense that being home is difficult for her. I’ve tried to help by keeping her mind off things.

“Your room still have posters of pop stars on the walls?” I tease, shifting the conversation.

“Nope.” She pops the “p” and gives a genuine little laugh. “My walls are full of trophies and medals.”

“Overachiever.” I picture her room: riding medals, junior rodeo belt buckles and other markers of her triumphant ascent through the racing ranks. There’s a long silence from the other end of the line. “What’s on your mind, baby?”

“Want to go to Calgary together?” Charlotte asks. Before I can answer, she keeps talking., “Liketogether,together. We’ll have to use my trailer because of Rooney, but I’ll meet you somewhere so that we can use your truck? And then we can spend the whole week with each other.”

The idea bounces around my head, but I don’t have to consider for too long. The logistics she’s discussing don’t matter. A week of uninterrupted time with Charlotte will always be a ‘yes.’

“Name the time and place, Charlie. I’m in,” I cut her off mid-sentence while she’s talking about splitting groceries and gas.

“Oh.” Her breath hitches in surprise. “Great. I just,” She hesitates, and I wish I could see her right now. Touch her and hold her while she talks. The ache her absence has created in the past several weeks has become harder and harder to ignore. “I would really like to spend more time with you.”

“I want that, too,” I assure her. There’s another stretch of silence, and I can tell she’s working up to saying something that’s been weighing on her thoughts.

“How many people have you slept with?”

I can’t help the exhale that parts my lips at her blunt question. But I try to deduce why she’s asking, and I can find the connection. Staying together in Calgary won’t be a roommate situation, and while it hasn’t been a hardship to follow the pace Charlotte has set, it’s responsible to talk this through.

“A lot,” I answer honestly. Charlotte hums in acknowledgment as I confirm my reputation. “I’m not sure if I should apologize for that or not?—”

“Not at all.” Her voice is firm. “You don’t owe me an explanation.” She pauses, but I can tell there’s more she needs to say. “I had a boyfriend in high school, but that’s the extent of my history. After we broke up, there were a few poor fumblings at house parties with a couple of random guys, but I’ve never slept over with anyone. And I’ve never had anyone stay in my rig with me.”

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