Chapter 25
It's one of those blustery, characteristically fall mornings with the hazy, orangey-brown light that makes me think of pumpkins and Thanksgiving and getting older.
I spend too much of my three and a half hours at work staring out the window onto Main Street, trying to predict the future and creating contingency plans for anything that has even the remotest possibility of breaking my heart between now and the end of time.
They are the three and a half slowest hours of my entire life.
You'd think the day before a major multi-agency operation, the office would be bustling, but I seem to be the only one, at least among the deputies, accepting the truth: We're just the puppets out front in all of this. The vast majority of planning and coordination has already been done by the animal rights people and the FBI. They've done it dozens of times before, all over the U.S., and they have over-produced videos with heart-wrenching soundtracks on YouTube to prove it. Technically, it's our raid because it's our county, but beyond that, we aren't too involved, so far at least.
By the time I leave for my appointment, it's two hours until Walt picks me up, and both the idea of that and the impending doctor's visit have me feeling a bit tense.
The physician's name is Dr. Storkan. She's well under five feet tall, and my estimation is that she is in her early 80s. No, that is not some lame attempt at being insulting, and it's definitely not to say that she isn't entirely competent.
As it turns out, I weigh five pounds more than I thought I did, and due to the stress induced by this seemingly insignificant piece of data, my heart rate is up to a level that suggests I haven't been fulfilling my duty to stay in shape for my job. Then, as I'm attempting to nurture my understandably wounded pride, I am violated under fluorescent lights by a plastic vice grip slathered in refrigerated KY while someone asks me what I do for a living. As a bonus, two vials of blood are sucked from my arm, and when I say I'd rather not watch, the nurse smirks because she was there when I said what kind of work I do, and you know, I'm expected to be tough.
When I'm sufficiently leveled and mildly depressed, Dr. Storkan totters back into the room and asks me in her crackly tenor if I'm sexually active.
"Why?" I ask. "Was something wrong?"
"No," she says, like she thinks I might be a bit on the slow side. "This is a standard line of questioning."
It's possible she's making fun of me.
"I'm recently divorced," I say.
"So you're not currently sexually active?"
"Umm. Actually, maybe I am a little."
"A little?" she asks.
"There's a guy," I say.
"And you are having intercourse with this man?"
"No, not really."
If she didn't think I was dumb before, I've definitely won her over now.
"All right," she says, writing on the chart. "Are you not really having intercourse with more than one man currently?"
"No," I say. "It's just the one."
"And you say you're taking birth control."
"Yes."
"Are you satisfied with it?" she asks.
"Well, it's done what it's supposed to do, I guess."
"And what is your plan for guarding against sexually transmitted disease?"
"I'd like to be tested for everything," I say.
She looks up from the chart, over her gold rimmed readers, and makes this face that I think could be described as a smile.
"That's a responsible approach," she says. "Has the man been tested?"
"Yes."
"And he's healthy?"
"Actually, I haven't asked him. But before proceeding, I'll find out."
She tells me that since it's before 1:00 PM and the hospital is next door, results of blood tests come back the same day, and for some weird reason, this makes my stomach drop.
"Someone will call you with the results this afternoon," she says, then she excuses herself.
As I'm driving home, I'm both excited and petrified.
I'm ready fifteen minutes before he's supposed to get here, and as a result, I have plenty of time to work myself up into a nervous frenzy.
My day pack is ready by the door, and in it is the lunch I offered to pack for us with a small thermos of Irish coffee, some dog biscuits, and a microfiber towel for use as a picnic blanket.
When he pulls up, I walk outside to meet him, taking a proactive approach where my neurosis is concerned. He's wearing faded jeans with a hole in one knee and an untucked faded black shirt, frayed at the sleeves and the collar, with a white T-shirt underneath. His hair is shiny and a little messed up. In other words, he looks unbelievably hot.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound chill, like there is nothing out of the ordinary about what we're doing.
"Hey," he says with that warm smile I'd never seen prior to the past few weeks.
I'm not sure if I should hug him or what, so I don't, and he doesn't make a move, either.
"This is going to sound super rude, this being our first date and all . . . ," I start.
"It's not our first," he says. "We went for a drink at the Red Pony."
"That wasn't exactly a date," I say.
"It ended like a date," he says.
"Like a lukewarm date." Obviously, I'm messing with him.
"I was prepared to offer something quite a bit hotter."
Okay then.
Now he's messing with me.
"Can we get back on track here?" I say.
He nods and says, "Sure," smiling like he thinks he's pretty funny.
"Is it okay if Rufus comes with us?"
"Yeah, of course," he says.
"He's going home tomorrow night," I say.
"Really?" He takes my pack from me and opens the tailgate. "That's too bad."
"I know, huh? I shouldn't have gotten so attached to him. Now I'll spend the rest of my days pining for the time we had together."
"I'll keep your mind off it," he says with a wink.
If we're starting like this, we're going to be hard pressed to get any eating or fishing done.
As we head west, there are thunderheads on the horizon. I don't mention them, and neither does he.
He's got his right arm stretched out onto the wheel and the other hand on his thigh, classic Walt Longmire driving posture, and he has sort of a dreamy expression on his face.
"Walt?" I say.
He looks at me just for a second and smiles.
"I know we've spent probably hundreds of hours in the car like this, but I'm seriously nervous right now."
He reaches over and takes my hand, then squints into the rearview mirror.
"I can fix that," he says, and he pulls over onto the wide dirt shoulder.
He checks the rearview again, and peers through the front window down the highway towards the mountains, then he slides over, puts his arms around my waist and pulls me towards him, and he kisses me.
It's all warm and smooth, with a lot of tongue, and it has a lighted-headed, first-drink-of-the-night effect on me, which was I guess the objective.
When he pulls back, he says, "Better?"
"You smell so good," I say because my brain isn't working properly.
He smiles and looks at me for a long time, like he's working himself up to something.
Then he says, "I love being with you, Vic," and he slides back, puts his seatbelt on, and assumes his driving posture as he pulls back onto the highway.