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feet with each passing day. I’d hardly thought of J once that whole week. Naive on my part, but that’s what Marlboro Man did to me: took away my ability to reason.
    â€œI’m coming there tomorrow,” J continued, an uncomfortable edge to his voice.
    Oh no. What?
    â€œYou’re coming here tomorrow?” I asked him. “Why?” My voice was cold. I didn’t like the way I sounded.
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘Why?’” he asked. “I need to talk to you, Ree.”
    â€œWell, we’re talking now…,” I replied. “Let’s just talk now.” (And hurry, please, because Marlboro Man might call in a sec.)
    â€œIt might take a while,” he said.
    I looked at my watch. “I thought we’d kind of figured everything out,” I said. “I thought you understood the state of things.”
    â€œThe ‘state of things’?” J bit back. “What the hell are you talking about?” This conversation was headed south, fast.
    â€œI don’t know what else there is to talk about,” I replied. “I told you…I just think we need to move on.”
    â€œWell, I don’t buy that,” he shot back. “And I’m coming so we can talk about it.”
    â€œWait a second,” I said. “Don’t I get a vote here?”
    â€œNo, actually you don’t,” he continued. “I don’t think you really know what you’re doing.”
    I was sleepy, I was giddy, and I was high on the scent of Marlboro Man’s cologne, and I wasn’t going to let J buzz-kill me out of it. “J,” I said, mustering up every ounce of directness I could find, “don’t come. There’d be no reason for you to come.” I asked him to call me the next day if he wanted, and we said good-bye.
    I took a deep breath, feeling wistful and wishing there was some way that relationships, if they had to end, could always end mutually and amicably—not with at least one of the parties feeling hurt and rejected. Then I fell asleep and dreamed the dreams I’d wanted to dream, about Marlboro Man and his boots and his lips and his strong, impossibly masculine embrace. And when my phone rang at seven the next morning, I was never more glad to hear Marlboro Man’s voice on the other end. We made plans for that evening, and I gave nary a thought to the fact that California J had just announced the day before that he would be flying to Oklahoma tosee me. Somehow, I thought my saying “don’t come” would be sufficient. Now I realize just how formidable someone in the throes of a new love is, whether they’re a cheating spouse or a defiant teenager or a flighty city girl in the arms of a cowboy; at that point, I was simply so drunk on the excitement Marlboro Man had brought me, nothing J said—not even “I’m coming tomorrow”—had truly registered.
    Â 
    D ENIAL. IT’S a powerful animal.
    The only thing on my mind the next morning was my date that night with Marlboro Man. It had become my new hobby, my new vocation, my interest in life. Marlboro Man had invited me to his ranch; he said he’d cook dinner this time. I didn’t much care what the plans were; I just wanted to see him again. Spend time in his presence. Get to know more about him, to kiss him good night for an hour. Or two. That was the only thing on my mind when I pulled out of my parents’ driveway that morning to run a few errands.
    When my car suddenly shook from a series of unsettling bumps, I knew something dire had happened. To my horror, when I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw that I’d run over Puggy Sue. Puggy Sue, my fat, prognathic canine who’d settled into my arms the day I’d returned from California and had become, in effect, my child during my time at home, was now lying on my parents’ street, squealing, writhing, and unable to move her hind legs.
    Hearing