To All the Cowboys I’ve Loved Before: The Hottest Western Romance of 2019!. D. Graham R.

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       Chapter 7

      Della

      The boys are so excited about how well Easton rode. They are literally hooting and hollering as we pile out of Chuck’s truck and head to the front door of the bar. They ended up placing first, second, and third. Easton’s ride was apparently close to perfect and they are all pumped up. I have no idea what a good or bad technique is. But, even to me, it was obvious Easton was in control the entire time. And the horse was so powerful. At the start of the event, when the first two riders in a row fell off—one on his head—I couldn’t fathom why anybody would attempt to do something so painful and idiotic. Then Easton rode, and now, even though I have vicarious whiplash just from watching their heads being thrashed back and forth for an eternally long eight seconds, I can absolutely see why they love doing it.

      The bouncer lets us pass without paying cover because the boys are rodeo contestants. The drinking age back home in Canada is nineteen, but in the three years since I’ve been legal, I’ve only been to a bar once before. It wasn’t really my scene during my undergrad since I don’t drink and can’t dance. And the prospect of picking up a stranger was nearly panic attack inducing back then. It still is. That bar was a techno-type dance bar. This one is a rustic country bar that could pass as a barn.

      A house band with a female lead singer is on stage playing something twangy. I don’t know any country songs. Hopefully they don’t all sound quite that down home. Chuck asks us what we want to drink and heads over to the bar. He walks somewhat oddly, like an arrogant penguin with swagger. It might be a combination of the cowboy boots and a bronc riding groin strain thing, but BJ and Easton walk normally, so more likely it’s a Chuck thing. They hang out with me at a bar-height table that is designed for standing at. The band goes on a break and the DJ music they are replaced with is a million times better, even though I still don’t recognize the songs. Two girls who must already know the boys come over to congratulate Easton. There is a lot of arm touching and shoulder hanging going on from their end. Flirting doesn’t look too hard. I could do that.

      Easton introduces me to them, but they’re more interested in talking to him. Obviously.

      “Do you want to dance, Della?” BJ asks and extends his arm as an invitation.

      “Oh. Uh.” No. That would be tragic. “I can’t dance. I mean physically I can move my limbs, but it would more closely meet the definition of a seizure than any modern definition of dancing. Even if I knew the song, which I don’t, it wouldn’t make a difference. Thank you for asking, but no.” I touch his arm to practice the flirty thing. It feels weird when I do it. I probably just creeped him out.

      He nods to accept that I turned him down. And now there is an awkward silence.

      “Really. Thanks for asking. I’m too klutzy. I would like to dance with you, but I lack rhythm. There is a good chance I’m tone deaf. One time at a family wedding I attempted the chicken dance with my sister and I knocked over a candle. It set the bride’s dress on fire. Literally. Flames.” I gesture with my hands to demonstrate the enormity of the inferno. “They had to use an extinguisher to save her life. It was awful. I was traumatized. So, yeah, maybe for your own safety and the longevity of the bar you should ask—” I point conspicuously over my shoulder at the red-headed girl who is talking to Easton.

      “I can teach you how to dance, darlin’.” BJ wraps his hand around mine and leads me out to the dance floor.

      I reluctantly follow, mostly because I know it will draw more attention to me if I flail and attempt to escape. Once we are on the dance floor I survey the surroundings for flammable objects. The coast is clear unless we get too close to that long horn thing on the wall.

      “All right.” BJ faces me and rests his hands on my shoulders to make me square up. “I’m going to show you how to two-step. It’s real easy, basically just walking.”

      “I’m not consistently good at walking.”

      He chuckles and slides his hat back slightly as if he’s worried I’m going to knock it off his head. Probably a prudent move. “All you have to do is let me lead. Put your weight on your left foot.”

      After a half-second delay to confirm with myself which is my left foot, I shift my weight.

      He shifts right. “The first two steps are quick. Then the next two are slow. Like this.” He demonstrates on the spot and I copy him. “Now go ahead and turn in a circle by yourself – quick, quick, slow, slow. Quick, quick, slow, slow.”

      I don’t know how to do that, so he does it. It’s technically more of a square, but it’s not actually that hard. It just feels a little embarrassing to do the four steps facing each wall of the room until I circle back to face him.

      “See, you got it already,” he says encouragingly. “Now hold my hand with your right hand and rest your left hand on my shoulder.”

      Wow. Holy cow. His muscles are simultaneously smooth and rock hard like the marble of a masterly carved Roman statue. No wonder the ladies are flocking around all the rodeo contestants. AKA specimens of the male physique. The giant flashy belt buckles they wear are like a beacon alerting the female species to the treasures that lie beneath the plaid button-up shirt.

      BJ positions my arms properly. “Start by stepping back with your right foot. Quick, quick, slow, slow.” He steps towards me and the momentum causes me to stumble because I forgot to step, but he stabilizes me so I don’t fall.

      “Sorry.”

      “It’s all right. Let’s try it again.”

      I glance across the bar at Easton. He’s watching us with a smile on his face, even though the girl beside him appears to still be talking to him. Okay. I’m going to look like an idiot in front of everyone, but I want to learn how to dance. I exhale. Reposition my arms. And stare down at my feet.

      “Don’t look down.” BJ lifts my chin with his finger. “Look at me, or over my shoulder. Your feet will do what they need to do without you looking at them.”

      “You have a lot of faith in my feet. You probably shouldn’t.”

      He smiles and waits patiently for me to get set. “It’s just walking to music, Della.”

      I nod and close my eyes. “Okay. Go.” I step my right foot back. Quick, quick, slow, slow. I repeat the instructions in my head for every single step, and it only works with my eyes closed, but it’s fine because he’s ushering me around the dance floor in a circle. My knee bonks into his. “Sorry.”

      “It’s okay. You’re doing good.”