True, I grew up in Houston. You might guess I’d been to a ranch before. But, honestly, no. I’d been to the Eiffel Tower, the Acropolis, the Taj Mahal, and the Forbidden City in Beijing, but I’d never been to a Texas ranch.
I guess I was always too busy escaping.
Until now.
I touched the skin of my knees and worried about how naked they were. Should I have worn jeans? Did I need to worry about rattlesnakes? Fire ants? Cacti?
I had a pair of stop-sign-red cowboy boots that my mom had given me for my eighteenth birthday, saying every Texas girl should own a pair of boots. I’d never had a good reason to wear them until now. They weren’t part of my official girlfriend wardrobe, but I’d packed them on principle. Right? If I wouldn’t wear them on a ranch, I’d never wear them anywhere.
Maybe I should put them on. For tarantula protection, if not for style.
Behind his shades, I saw Jack glance over at my hands. “Are you nervous?” he asked.
Yes. “No.”
“Good. This won’t last long. My parents will be glad to see us, but my brother hates me, so he’ll get rid of us pretty fast.”
“We’re probably going to need to talk about that.”
“My brother?”
“Yep.”
“Nope.”
“I’m just saying, the more I know, the better I can help you.”
“So therapy is included?”
“Sometimes.”
“You signed the nondisclosure agreement, right?”
“Of course.”
Jack thought about it. “Yeah. I’m still not talking about it.”
“Your call,” I said. I’d been so flustered the first time we met that I’d forgotten to run through the Very Personal Questionnaire, and now seemed like as good a time as any. I pulled my “J.S.” file out of my bag. “Let’s do some other questions, though.” We still had thirty minutes on the freeway.
Jack didn’t agree to answer, but he didn’t refuse, either.
I pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Are you on any drugs that we need to be aware of?”
“Nope.”
“Any vices? Gambling? Hookers? Shoplifting?”
“Nope.”
“Obsessions? Secret lovers?”
“Not at the moment.”
“You sound awfully monkish for a world-famous actor.”
“I’m taking a break.”
Noted. I went on. “Anger management problems? Deep dark secrets?”
“No more than anybody else.”
Mental note: a tad evasive there.
I turned back to the list. “Medical concerns?”
“Picture of health.”
“Markings?”
He frowned. “Markings?”
“On your body,” I clarified. “Tattoos. Birthmarks. Moles—remarkable or otherwise.”
“I have a freckle shaped like Australia,” he said, pulling to untuck his shirt.
“Stop!” I said. “I know what Australia looks like.” I wrote down “Australia freckle” and then went on. “Scars?”
“A few. Nothing to write home about.”
“At some point, I’ll need to get pictures of everything.”
“Why?”
I refused to hesitate. “In case we need to identify your body.”
“My dead body?”
“Your live body. Like in a ransom photo. Not that it would ever come to that.”
“That’s disturbing.”
I kept going. “Other physical abnormalities?”
“Like?”
Most people just answered the questions. “I don’t know. Crooked toes? Extra tooth? Vestigial tail? Get creative.”
“Nothing’s coming to mind.”
Okay. Next. “Sleeping difficulties?”
I waited for him to demand examples, but instead, after a pause, he just said, “Nightmares.”
I nodded, like Got it. “Frequency?”
“A couple of times a month.”
A couple of times a month? “Recurrent?”
“What?”
“Is it the same nightmare every time?”
“Yep.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“Do you need to know?”
“I mean, kind of.”
He worked the steering wheel like he was considering his options. Finally, he said, “Drowning.”
“Okay,” I said. It was only one word, but it felt like a lot. Next question. “Any phobias?”
A pause.
Then a curt nod. “Also drowning.”