“Holy fuck…a girl,” he whispers—to himself, I think. I kick myself for not wearing waterproof mascara as I come away from wiping my tears with black streaks across my hands. I know my face is probably a disaster but I’m comforted by looking at the man gently crying next to me. At least we can both be weepy messes together. “Think you can handle a girl?” “Fuck yeah, I can. We’ll paint our nails, then go work cows together.” “You’re going to paint your nails?” The way I’m blubbering, I feel drunk. “Abso-fucking-lutely. Painted nails, hair bows, whatever she wants. Not ashamed at all of being
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