Chapter 29 in the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"
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In the darkness of an anomalous moonless night, Chance pensively paces along the courtyard’s front wall, pausing in the middle of each loop to stare through the arched entryway in an attempt to penetrate the thick juniper and piñon forest forming a moat around the property. “Why so freaking vague.” he mumbles. “If I wanted to patrol a wall waiting for unknown shit, I’d have joined the freaking Foreign Legion.”
Their unspoken tension aside, there’s no escaping Dario’s more suited for this sort of thing. Each time Chance approaches the north wall he peers through the large kitchen window to make sure Sympatico’s okay. He may not understand the risks or ramifications of what’s being asked and may not have been briefed on the enemy or the danger, but none of that matters when the task at hand is keeping Sympatico safe. There’s no obvious evidence, but he knows between the story he assumes and the way Jake and Dario huddle in whispers, something big is brewing. Living on the road has taught Chance to trust his instincts, which right now tell him Jake’s involved in serious shit. That’s why, even though it’s confirmed on a nearly bi-minute basis, he reaches behind his back to feel the cold hard steel of the flower-pot pistol tucked in his pants. “This time, I’ll freaking be ready.”
Sympatico’s cleaning and putting away dishes; maybe cooking or baking. Chance doesn’t have a basis for matching a woman’s activities in a kitchen with what she’s doing. It’s the unknown of her constant motion married with her brilliant beauty that draws him. Each time he cycles past the window he sees her in a different light and wishes he could tell her of his heroic assignment. While Sympatico’s been absolutely clear regarding the improbability of success, that’s just her assessment, he evaluates his likelihood significantly higher and if history’s any indication, he’ll prevail. It’s pragmatically impossible to know if he’d use the pistol, but the more he considers scenarios, the more anxious he gets because winning outcomes are hard to come by. “I don’t even know what we’re freaking up against, let alone the parameters or protocols.”
He nickels and dimes his way through possible scenarios with one uncomfortable fact getting in the way. “Why the hell did he tell me to grab the pistol? You don’t willy-nilly involve a gun!” He picks up his pace working off frustration even while managing to pause in front of the kitchen window on each lap. “Any crowded club,” he whispers watching Sympatico flow in and out view. That’s his barometer for assessing a woman’s desirability, a metric derived from a game he concocted years ago. If there’s a crowded club filled with exquisitely beautiful women and he spots his muse at the precise moment a gorgeous girl who’s been chatting him up offers to take him home, does he reject the gorgeous sure thing for a chance at destiny? If the answer’s yes, she passes the Crowded Club test. “You absolutely pass,” he says to the window, “with half a beauty to spare.”
If you ask Chance what it is about Sympatico making her so intoxicating, he might not fully articulate a response, but still the same, there’s absolutely no doubt she’s beyond any woman he’s ever known. “What if it’s a jealous ex?” He pauses in the archway. “Or worse, an angry boyfriend?” Husbands and ex-husbands are one thing, but there’s way more over-the-top anger and uncertainty in unconfirmed relationships. Husbands get hurt but it’s based on bruised egos more than betrayal, and ego anger is easily deflated in the face of counter-aggression. Ex-husbands are even less of a threat, they mostly get pissed about post-divorce matters like kids and crap which means, they’re not usually driven to irrational behavior. “If a guy rolls up and hops out of his car, how do I know who he is or how to react?”
Each trip past the kitchen causes Chance to linger to watch Sympatico move with the charm and elegance of a sophisticated lady no stranger to work. If you ask Chance should a woman have careers or stay home, he’ll tell you he doesn’t know, he’s certain though that the harder a woman works at whatever she does, the more desirable she is. If he ever took the time to analyze why he’s wired that way, he’d realize it stems from his mom being lazy, keeping a dirty house, and only interested in what interests her, which usually wasn’t him. She rarely cooked or did laundry and made a point of making sure he understood how inconvenienced she felt whenever he asked for ride or invited her to attend a school function. When his mom walked out, Chance was convinced both he and his dad were better off even though he never understood her deal and his dad never allows exploration. While he doesn’t think much about it anymore, he’d like to know if she was always that way or grew into it, but even that only holds mild interest.
From his childhood perspective, it was devastating when she left but looking back now, it doesn’t much matter; she was selfish, lazy, and sat on her ass all day smoking cigarettes, all of which made her a bad wife and poor mom. To this day Chance doesn’t date smokers, is completely turned off by laziness, and abhors any sign of selfishness. His non-yielding position on this is absolute, which is a bit odd for a guy who’d do almost anything to sleep with any reasonably attractive woman. He will not kiss a woman who smokes, he’ll drop a girl like a molten rivet at the first act of selfishness, and he won’t sleep with someone who’s lazy. If he’s invited home by a woman who keeps a sloppy house, he assumes she maintains herself in the same manner and abruptly leaves. From what he knows so far, Sympatico conquers all his turn-offs.
He pauses the archway staring at the vacantly blank parking lot. “Suppose her boyfriend rolls up, should I stop him? I mean what’s the worst that can happen, he talks to her, maybe they go for a drive to work things out, why would I put myself in the middle of that?” He walks to the kitchen window. “I’d sure as hell try to get her back.”
“What if he’s a stalker? Have to stop that, but how far would I go? Guess I wouldn’t let her go for a drive, but what if he insists? No, a stalker has to be sent packing. But how would I know he’s a stalker, I mean it’s not like they freaking wear team jerseys? What if I can’t determine who he is but he insists I stand aside? I say I can’t. He says I must. I say sorry dude but no. Do I go for the gun? Would I? Would she want me to? Would things end any different than Worland? What the freaking hell am I doing?”
Before Chance can resolve his angst, he’s catapulted to the present by the sudden sound of a vehicle accelerating up the long undulating driveway. Through the darkness, headlights teasingly pierce past trees only to get lost again by a turn or downward dip in the road. “Here we go,” Chance whispers certain one of his scenarios is about to go down. Should he hide to gain the element of surprise? He quickly rejects that strategy choosing instead to stand large in the archway so whoever’s coming understands up front they have to deal with him. As the vehicle transitions from the driveway to the parking lot, Chance stands as large as he can bracing against the engine’s approaching roar. Unconsciously he puts his right hand behind his back, wrapping his finger around the handle. His failed effort to steady his nerves and slow the rush of adrenaline leads him to a dire conclusion, “this is freaking Worland all over again.”
The pickup fires past the courtyard stopping abruptly at the opposite end of the parking lot where it’s immediately ensconced in a cloud of dust making the mystery of who’s inside that much more dramatic. Chance releases his grip and starts toward the truck at the same time the solid built driver throws open his door and jumps out. “You scared the shit out of me,” Chance whispers, keeping his voice down so as to not alert anyone who might be on the verge of launching a surprise attack.
“Sorry man,” Dario says pulling two camouflage weapon cases from the back seat. “I came as quick as I could.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“Not sure,” Dario answers while handing Chance the weapon cases to reach deeper into the back seat for a backpack and ammo box. “But I have a pretty good idea.”
“Why’d you park out here?”
“Don’t want my truck getting shot.” Dario closes his door and starts toward the courtyard leaving it up to Chance whether or not to follow.
“Do we really need guns.”
“Weapons,” Dario corrects. “I also brought a couple pistols.”
Chance rearranges the cases so he’s holding both handles in his left hand. He reaches behind his back. “They the same as this?”
Dario glances at the pistol without breaking stride. “That’s Jake’s.”
“He told me use it.”
“Then you know what this is about.” Dario steps into the courtyard’s dim light.
“No, I don’t! That’s what’s so freaking crazy. I mean Jake tells me to protect Sympatico but doesn’t say from what. He tells me to use the gun but doesn’t say why. All in all, this is screwed up.”
“He’s probably pinched for time.” Dario hoists the ammo box and backpack onto a table halfway between the courtyard entrance and kitchen window. Just then Sympatico sashays across his view stopping him in his tracks. Her long black hair shines as it ebbs and flows in syncopation to silky movements, bouncing seductively along the contours of her long neck and broad shoulders. The combination of dark tan skin and deep brown eyes tells him she’s full of passion, which for Dario, is number one in a woman. Even if he gets yelled at all the time, men need women with passion, otherwise they just drift through life.
Sympatico’s full figure is another traffic stopping bonus, Dario likes women with a bit more meat on their bones; makes them durable. Even though she’s on the skinny side she’s full in all the right places; a feature further accentuated by being skinny in the other places. Her lips are softly sensual, something he noticed the instant he first saw her. Kissing matters and a woman like her could kiss a man in a way that wakes him from dreams only to realize he’s living a dream. But the intrinsic thing that flat ass intoxicates him is her strength. Given all he knows about all she’s endured is simply beyond measure and a woman like her couldn’t help but make a man like him better. She could mother sons a father would be proud of, daughters a dad would spend his whole life protecting because every man would want to know them even though none would be good enough.
“For the third time, where do you want the cases?”
Pulled back to the moment, Dario points to the open spot on the table next to the ammo box. Chance dumps the cases on the table and is about to chastise Dario but-. “We’re not supposed to tell her what we’re doing,” Dario flatly states as Chance becomes equally transfixed.
“What are we doing?”
“Not telling her.” Begrudgingly, Dario knows duty comes first, and they have a lot to do in not much time. He opens the rifle case pulling out a lever-action Winchester that he sets on top of the canvas. He opens his ammo box extracting seven rounds, loading them into the weapon one at a time. “This is the rifle that won the West,” he tells Chance as he jacks a round into the chamber and softly lowers the hammer before returning the Winchester to the table. He next removes a 12-gauge semi-automatic shotgun from the other case, pulls five double-aught shells from a box, loads the tube before pumping a round into the breach, and double checks the safety. “Took the duck plug out, can’t have too many rounds, right?”
“I suppose,” Chance answers uncertain if joking about that sort of thing puts him at odds with the sidewalk cafe-crowd he usually associates with.
“You know how to use this?”
Chance hesitantly nods uncertain he wants whatever responsibility comes with his answer. “Grew up bird hunting with my dad.”
“That makes you the up-close guy.” Dario executes his strategy with the same calmness a person might use to order food at a drive up. “I’ll take the rifle and deal with anything beyond thirty yards.” Dario pulls two pistols out of his backpack: one’s a stainless-steel revolver with walnut wood grip similar to Jake’s while other’s a blued barrel semi-automatic. “These are forty-fives, Jake’s a thirty-eight.” Dario hands Chance the revolver and shoves the semi-automatic in his waistband.
This is starting to feel like a spaghetti Western, like he’s waiting for the bad guys to ride into town. “Is the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang gunning for us?”
“Way worse,” Dario flatly answers while staring into the dark.
Suddenly the angry boyfriend scenario Chance saw as his worst-case scenario seems appealing. Dario points at Chance’s revolver. “That’s a Smith & Wesson, mine’s a Colt, that’s how you tell em apart.”
Chance looks at the pistols unable to discern a difference. “Yours seems heavier.”
“My rounds don’t fit in Jake’s but his fit in mine. Don’t cross load or there’ll be one less Harley dude; not that anyone would notice.” Chance is about to delve deeper into this cross-loading issue when Sympatico crosses the window causing them to once again focus on the Goddess they’ve been sent to protect. “She sure is something,” Dario says mostly to himself.
“How does someone like her end up here?” Chance asks.
“That’s complicated.”
“I assume it’s not a jealous boyfriend?”
“Way more complicated.”
“You keep saying that! Sooner or later someone’s gotta tell me something.”
Sympatico’s on her way back to the kitchen, but sensing something, turns to look out the window surprised to find Dario and Chance staring back. Like awkward high school boys bumping into the popular girl, Dario averts his stare busying himself at the table. Chance locks onto Sympatico’s eyes flashing his heroic smile. Without expression, she reengages her work.
“You shouldn’t stare like that,” Chance scolds. “It makes her uncomfortable.”
“Me! You’re the one needing to back off.”
“I live here dude.”
“For a stinky week!” Dario doesn’t conceal his annoyance, which is complemented by his deep-seated frustration at being displaced by someone Jake doesn’t even need. Chance feels he has right of first refusal given he lives here. He also can’t recall her ever mentioning Dario, which means there not a thing; even though, to be technically accurate, they’ve only had one real conversation and he’s beginning to suspect it may not have ended well.
“I’ve known her longer than you’ve even been in New Mexico.” Dario sees himself not only as the person who rescued Sympatico, but as her protector and guardian, only with a potentially romantic overlay.
“Only been here a week dude.” Chance knows he’s smarter, better looking, and has that rebellious je ne sais quoi women go for. In head-to-head competition he beats Dario hands down every time.
“She was gonna live with me?” By Dario’s sorting he’s the obvious one, he’s strong, loyal, and way better able to take care of her than Mr. flash-in-the-pants. There’s only room for one bull of the woods and if you ask anyone around the valley, they’ll tell you Dario’s one bad-ass bull of the woods.
“I doubt that.” Chance knows from vast experience that men like Dario mistakenly think women go for the macho type when in fact they prefer charm and sophistication; someone who makes them laugh. If such a man is also handsome, that’s just added eye candy.
“Hell yeah!” Dario says in the powerful way bulls mark territory. “But Padre says she has to stay here, Jake’s not happy about it and if ya ask me, it’s bad idea, but what can you do?”
“Probably for the best, she’s not your type.”
“She sure as hell ain’t yours!” Dario’s annoyance rapidly stews into anger. “Guys like you are all the same, you got the looks and charm, but behind that there’s nothing.”
The line neither wanted to cross, especially tonight, has now been shredded. Dario’s more than happy to throw down if that’s their route. Chance is less willing but it’s not his first response. “If winning the heart of a woman’s a foot race,” he whimsically contends hoping to get their banter on a less confrontational tone, “I’d be the rabbit and you’d be the turtle.”
“Good for me it’s not a foot race.” Dario steps toward the archway peering into the darkness, his combat training and situational awareness compel him to rein in anger; it’s not easy but is required. “Besides, the turtle wins.”
“Only cause the rabbit losses focus.” Chance steps to the other side of the archway. Before their tit-for-tat devolves further, the irrefutable tapping of happy paws on tile announces Quando’s arrival. Before even entering the courtyard, Quando smells his longtime friend and dashes toward him for a slobbery hello.
“Quando!” Dario shouts, “how the hell ya doing?” As Dario rubs his head, Quando’s tail wags wildly, slapping Chance’s leg with so much thrust is brushing him sideways. Quando gets a whiff of the pistol in Dario’s waistband and that’s all a Quando needs to achieve exquisite happiness. He backs up barking; the smell of gunpowder means shooting, shooting means hunting, and hunting is the best thing there can be for Quandos; even better than chasing tennis balls if that’s ever even possible. Quando races around the courtyard in an adrenaline rush of utter joy forgetting all about obstacles. He slams into chairs and bounces off table legs before stopping at the source of his happiness, he sniffs up and down the length of each barrel laid out on the table, barking between joyful snorts. Quando differentiates between rifle powder and shotgun powder, rifles mean he has to stay home but the shotgun says there’s birds to be had, trucks to ride, and no doubt water to romp.
“Come here, boy,” Dario calls. Quando storms toward Dario only instead of stopping, squeezes between him and Chance before shooting across the parking lot at full lope slamming to a stop at the back of Dario’s pickup. He puts his front paws on the back bumper and peaks over the tailgate. There aren’t any decoys but that’s okay, more room for birds. He quickly hops off the bumper and stands behind the truck barking. After impatience overtakes the point he’s trying to make, he races back to the courtyard as hard as he can. If a camera were focused on the archway, the replay review would definitely show Quando did what he could to stop. Replay would also reveal how ten feet out, Quando realizes he’s running out of runway and initiates an emergency slow-down; unfortunately, it’s too late. Realizing extra measures are required he drops into a sit-down slide on the loose gravel but between the momentum of his lope and the unpredictable vector of his slide, he uncontrollably turns broadside as he approaches the archway having barely siphoned off momentum.
Quando careens into Dario and Chance with the force of a fast-moving bowling ball striking the head pin. He takes Dario out square causing him to fall forward using his hands to absorb the graveled impact. Chance attempts to jump back but all that does is reset the direction of his fall, bouncing with enough energy to spin his sideways. As gravity does what gravity does, Chance manages to grab onto the edge of a table with one hand, which softens the fall even though he winds up on his ass with what the replay reel would document as an embarrassingly ungraceful descent.
“Damn dog!” Dario yells through laughter as he stands up brushing off loose gravel. Quando runs around the table containing the shotgun and shells three times before bolting back out the archway barking.
“Dude!” Chance scolds getting back on his feet, “take a chill pill.”
Dario kneels down and pets Quando under his belly. “You just want to hunt, don’t ya?” Quando barks in exuberance. “We are hunting, just not birds.”
“What do you hunt then?” Sympatico interjects seriously looking first at Dario and then Chance. She’s holding a tray with three glasses of iced tea and a plate of freshly baked oatmeal raisin cookies. “Jake’s at poker,” she offers putting the tray on a table near the disturbed flowerpot. “But you already know that.” She walks to the table with the rifle and shotgun having every intention of chastising them. When she sees the Winchester, her mood dramatically shifts as she’s transformed to a time before present time started. Back to when she knew love, trusted in goodness, and when men of integrity and honor existed, when hope was common and happiness pedestrian. “My Abuelo had such a rifle.” Memories ramp back as she slides her fingers down the barrel and along the worn stock. “The gun that won the West, he used to say.”
Retrieving memories is new for Sympatico, most of the girls with her these past few years clung desperately to their past believing with all their strength the present is an awful nightmare they could forget once awake. She knew better, every day she awoke to the reality of her world, and her past only existed as cruel taunts. She never dreams, that requires acknowledging such things are possible, and knowing otherwise was successfully beaten into her early on. Now, to be thinking again of her Abuelo means she once again remembers hope and hope is the cruelest of all taunts.
Unaware of the pain sweeping over Sympatico, Dario smiles at Chance in a way that boasts her using his quote is proof-positive she belongs with him. Sympatico continues caressing the barrel. “I would beg him to show me how to shoot. Someday mi poco nieto, he would say, someday I will teach you.” Sympatico’s back in Bolivia, back with people who love her; and more important, with people she loves.
“Did he?” Dario asks.
His question snaps Sympatico back to now, to the painful reality she almost for a moment forget. “They killed him before he could.” Her solemn tone’s decidedly sadder, more introverted. She continues stroking the barrel.
“Who killed him?” Chance prods.
“Soldiers, men sworn to protect the people; only they don’t.”
In Dario’s myopic world view soldiers should always exude honor, integrity, and a willingness to die to protect both. In his straightforward calculus soldiers are above even their own ambitions, protecting others at all times at any consequence.
“He believed Bolivia should be for Bolivians. Oligarchs and foreign capitalists who controlled the soldiers felt otherwise. That made him dangerous.”
Dario decides he would have liked Sympatico’s grandfather. He admires and even envies him for having such a noble cause. “I’m sorry for your loss.” He consoles with the reflexes of someone who’s repeated that phrase many times. “Anyone who knows Winchesters and has the courage to stand up against corruption is a great man.”
Sympatico fights back tears for a loss she’s not confronted in a very long time. She looks at Dario muscling the strength to stoically smile. “Strong and brave is what I remember, but also kind and funny. He loved me very much.” She slips deeper into private thoughts. Acknowledging someone once loved her feels odd to say but comforting to hear. “I loved him very much.” She considers how her life would be different if more men like him existed. “I never got to say goodbye, they took me before his funeral.”
“Funny isn’t it,” Chance starts only to realize how utterly wrong that is. “Not funny, ironic.” He realizes even that’s not deep enough. “Tragically ironic; how much we miss the people who greatly influence our lives, how much they live in us. For me it’s my dad.”
“You lost your father?” For the first time, Sympatico feels a potential connection with this flamboyant house guest.
“No, I just don’t get to see him anymore.”
Sympatico’s strangely disappointed, they don’t have something in common, but she’s nonetheless moved. “Why not?”
Chance struggles for a way to answer that’s truthful in the spirit of his loss without being literal. “It’s, well-, complicated.” He shoots Dario a sardonic grin. “I talk to him by phone when I can, I sure do miss him though.”
Sympatico accepts the sincerity of his struggle. “I am someday sure it will work out.” She learned years ago when her journey to right now started, not to seek understanding. She’s grateful Chance shared his sadness, even while knowing he’s shallow and uses words to manipulate. Still, hearing his story makes him more real and in that lies a certain likeness. It helps her move past memories and back to the moment. She grabs two glasses of tea, taking the first to Chance, which causes him to smirk at Dario in a ‘she likes me more,’ kinda way. Sympatico next hands Dario a glass. She’s on her way back to the table when Dario, in an unexpectedly bold gesture, ups the rivalry. “They must have the same tradition in Bolivia we have here.” Even though Dario manages to get out his flirtation in a somewhat non-nervous voice his face turns Hatch chili red.
“What is that?” Sympatico asks.
Dario barely finds the fortitude to finish. “That a beautiful woman serves the man she admires most, last.”
The only person more surprised by this obvious pickup line than Sympatico, is Chance, who’s genuinely impressed. Never in a million years would he believe Dario could pull off such suaveness. The thing Chance notices however, and the thing that separates pros like him from wannabes, is his ability to stay in character. Dario may have managed to get his line out, which does take stones, but he gets lost in the aftermath. Finding the courage to offer up such a great line is remarkable for a bulky cowboy, but now Dario’s face, hell even his ears, betray his embarrassment. While Chance respects Dario’s creative courage he cannot, not attack his vulnerability; after all, all’s fair in love and war. “Where’d you learn such a cheesy pickup line?” He knows labeling Dario’s brilliant flirtation a pickup line not only embarrasses him, it creates a platform to regain control.
Dario struggles for a response but loses his words, which only heightens his awkwardness. “I’m just saying, we have a tradition.” He looks around frantically as if he might find his missing words hiding in the night. “And I was speculating they have something similar in Bolivia.” Dario manages an awkward smile, which changes abruptly to daggers and darts when he looks at Chance. He knows he lost this round to his slick-tonged adversary and normally such a situation would be addressed physically. That’s also usually an effective way to win a women’s affections and while Dario knows he can take Chance; he accepts that it’s not an option given the operational parameters of their mission and his desire to impress Sympatico with a more genteel version of himself.
Sympatico picks up the plate of cookies. ‘Maybe,’ Dario thinks to himself, ‘her English is so poor she didn’t pick up on what was said.’ He quickly convinces himself he’s in the clear when she again serves Chance first. ‘She heard me alright.’ He grins at Chance who looks angrily back verifying this round goes to Dario.
“I like you both very much,” Sympatico tells them as she offers Dario a cookie. “But no, we do not have such traditions in Bolivia.”
Dario tries to smile but the bright red of utter embarrassment gets in the way. He can literally feel air draining out his body. ‘Even air doesn’t want to be me,’ he thinks.
Sympatico puts the plate on the table and turns to face both her would-be suitors. “And I very much doubt you have such traditions here. As for you two roosters scratching around the courtyard, I’m not interested in starting anything with anyone.” She looks directly at Dario locking onto his eyes. Even though he allows her to connect, he wants desperately to look away; he just can’t. “You rescued me.” Sympatico’s voice is full of profound emotion. “For that I am forever grateful. It is a debt I can never repay.”
Dario hopes to cut short the rest of what he’s pretty certain she has planned. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Sympatico smiles in an openly sincere way. “It’s one of the things I admire most about you.” She pauses for a moment. “You are my brave strong hero who makes me feel safe just by being near.” It’s hard for her to talk about what happened but she feels she has to in order for Dario to fully understand her position. “You know where I was, what I escaped. You have to know what it means for a girl like me to feel safe. I no longer sleep curled up in a corner fearful of what may come through my door.” She starts to cry and tries to laugh it off but is only modestly successful. “I have you to thank for that.”
Dario nods slowing while managing a tense but watery-eyed smile, suddenly mad at himself for not respecting her enough to not already know these things.
“You protected me when no one would. I am so proud to know you. There are not many men in this world that could stand next to you. I am humbled a man as great as you cares about someone like me.”
‘Of course, she doesn’t need me chasing after her hoping for the same thing she fought through hell to escape,’ Dario confesses to himself while shamefully looking away. ‘I will change,’ he vows. ‘Of course she doesn’t need another bull sniffing around, she needs a man of convincing strength for the very reasons just stated. I will be that man, that’s how I’ll help her fall in love.’
Dario attempts talking while trying not to sound all choked. “You are the strongest person I have ever known, you make me want to be better.”
“Gracias,” Sympatico says while breaking her hold on him and shifting to Chance. “I don’t know you, maybe in time we too will share things that draw us close, but the more you get to know me, the more you will come to know I am not the woman you imagine.” It’s hard for Sympatico to reveal herself because on some level, it requires owning her past and she’s trying to jettison such possessions. “You love your father and that makes you decent.”
Chance relies on his ability to lock eyes with a woman as a way to win them over and it’s rare a woman can cause him to avert his gaze. He doesn’t know what’s in her past but can tell not only from what she said, but the painfulness of how she expresses sadness that her past is incredibly tormented. In a rare instance he feels ashamed for thinking of her only in terms of conquest and understands now that she’s not like the countless others whose images he can hardly conjure. In fact, only one woman has ever made him consider women as anything other than toys, and that just makes his attraction stronger.
Sympatico smiles at her would-be suitors one last time before picking up the tray and retreating to the kitchen. The boys watch her leave, each deep in their own takeaways. For some time after her departure, they stand in silence neither sure what to say or do. It’s a funny phenomenon how words and feelings can be so clear in one moment, only to vanish in the ether where they simultaneously exist on a logical level and cease to exist on an operational level. The boys hear her words, feel her emotions, and respect her request; just as easily as they cherry-pick words.
“Well,” Chance finally breaks the silence, “that’s a lot to think about.”
“Un huh,” Dario answers not yet ready to return to words.
“She said I was a good person.” Chance looks at Dario with an ‘a-hah’ grin.
Dario glares back without expression no longer needing to play Chance’s game. After all, it’s pretty clear where things stand. ‘She called me strong and brave, said I was her hero.’ Dario doesn’t need to get in a pissing match with Chance; not when it’s obvious who’s won. “I so am the one,” he confidently concludes like any bull of the woods would.
They say in love, hope springs eternal. For a New Mexico cowboy tormented by his past and a Harley rider on the run, that age old adage could not be more true. For every mom who’s ever scolded a boy only to watch her words go in one ear then out the other; the last five minutes is verifiable proof that even after little boys become handsome or heroic, a woman’s words still go in one ear and out the other.
