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GRACE

My mascara is smeared halfway down my face, there’s a wine glass in the bathroom sink for reasons I can’t explain, and the guy I let inside me last night called me Brandy when he came.

Spoiler: my name’s not Brandy.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror of my tiny, overpriced apartment and try not to hate the girl with the bloodshot eyes, the walk-of-shame ponytail, and the full-body regret wrapped in a crumpled undershirt that isn’t hers.

Last night, I wanted a connection.

What I got was tequila, bad sex, and a door slam so loud, it shook my bathroom towels off the rack.

“Stop being so desperate,” I whisper to the woman in the mirror. “He had a vape chain and a man-bun. He listens to podcast bros who start every sentence with ‘the problem with women…’. He spent most of our date talking about crypto .”

But I know the truth. I wasn’t looking for love. I was looking for a moment when I didn’t feel alone in my skin. Someone to make me feel connected, even for a little while. Spoiler again: that moment never came.

It’s time to pull myself together. It’s what I do.

Shower away my mistakes. Foundation over the blotchy beard burn.

Red lipstick smeared on like war paint. A hairbrush to deal with the just-been-badly-fucked bird’s nest. A pencil skirt tight enough to demand attention and heels high enough to make me forget I regret anything but buying them.

I brush the taste of Crypto-Carl from my mouth and spit him down the plughole.

By 9:15 a.m., I’m walking into Fine Lines Magazine , our open-concept office buzzing with fake cheer and deadline desperation. My assistant, Leo, holds out a latte like an offering to a hungover god. He doesn’t ask why I look like I crawled out of Coachella a day after it ended. He doesn’t need to.

God bless him.

By 9:23, I’m sitting behind my glass desk with a stack of article drafts, three meeting invites, a sore, unsatisfied pussy, and the urge to scream into the void.

My title is ‘editor-in-chief,’ which sounds glamorous until you realize I spend most of my time fixing everyone else’s messes and pretending I don’t want to throw my phone into the nearest toilet.

At 9:35, the call comes in.

Rianna, my best reporter and the only other person in this building who understands how to use a comma correctly, sounds like she’s swallowed a bee.

“Grace,” she croaks. “You’re going to hate me. No, hate is too good. You’re going to despise me.” She coughs. “I have Mono.”

“You’re thirty-four,” I reply, shaking my head. “You’re supposed to be immune to bad teenage decisions and illnesses.”

“Tell that to the bartender from Cancun.” She coughs, and it sounds like a husky on its deathbed. “I’m dying. ”

Her current boyfriend yells distantly in the background about NyQuil dosage.

I click into the assignment doc. “Okay, okay, fine. You’re excused from the… cowboy thing?” There’s a pause while I scan what’s in front of me, confused. “ The what now? ” I blink.

“You assigned it,” she says, voice hoarse and annoyingly smug. “You don’t read my pitches, do you?”

“I skim.”

“Well, read this one all the way, boss. It’s good.”

The headline is in bold:

“Eleven Cowboys, One Wife: A Modern Marriage Experiment in the American West.”

I keep reading, thinking it’s a joke, but it’s not.

It’s real. Eleven men, all brothers, and cousins, living on a ranch in God knows where.

Parents dead. Grandparents raised them. Now, they’re running the land they inherited and raising six kids between them.

They want one woman to join their family. One woman for all of them.

All eleven men.

At once.

Well, it doesn’t actually say that last part, but that’s where my mind goes. My ex-colleague, Allie, is in a poly relationship with ten men, so the concept isn’t new, but it’s still foreign enough to smell like humus.

“They placed an ad in a national newspaper,” Rianna croaks.

I keep reading. Looking for a woman to love, work with, raise kids, and build a life with. Must be open-minded. Must like the outdoors.

Open-minded? I blink twice.

“What is this?” I mutter. “A cult?”

Leo peeks in. “What?”

“Nothing.” I wave him away.

On the other end of the line, Rianna laughs and then groans. “Not a cult. Just men looking for love.”

Men .

Looking for love?

It must be bullshit.

Men don’t look for love. They look for sex. Easy sex. And an easier way out. Or, if they’re staying, they look for a maid with sex-worker enthusiasm and a side order of nanny skills.

This assignment will prove everything I believe about men, but wish wasn’t true.

This ad is a ruse to attract women, but not for hearts and flowers and romantic evenings. These cowboys are looking for a housekeeper, a cook, a therapist, and a nanny, with some extremely open-minded sex on the side. The mind boggles—and groans with exasperation.

“I’m on it,” I say, clutching the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Go gargle with some tequila.”

She cough-laughs, then hangs up as I start typing.

To: HR. Subject: Time off.

To: Leo. Subject: Get me a rental car and shoes that don’t scream ‘midtown.’

To: Rianna. Subject: You owe me. Big time.

I lean back in my chair, take a long sip of my latte, and stare out at the city skyline. It’s familiar, which is comforting but soulless, too. There’s no happiness out there, no contentment, not for me, at least.

I pick up my phone and dial Allie’s number.

It’s been a while since we spoke, and I half expect her to ignore my call.

Since her ‘ Does Size Matter?’ assignment took her in another professional and personal direction, we’ve only kept in touch sporadically, but faced with this cowboy assignment, she’s the first person I want to speak to.

“Hello?”

“Allie, it’s Grace. How are you?”

“Grace?” She sounds surprised, as expected. “I’m good. How are you?”

“I’m good.” I suddenly feel ridiculous for calling her, and my cheeks burn hot. “I mean, fine. Just heading out on assignment. ”

“Didn’t you get promoted to ‘sit in a glass box and look intimidating’ editor-in-chief?”

“I did… well, not the intimidating part… then Rianna caught Mono, and I got drafted. It’s a ranch piece. Bunch of cowboys looking for a wife. Eleven of them. One woman.”

There’s a long pause, and Allie erupts into one of those deep, from-the-gut cackles that make me smile exactly as I expected.

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I’m going to Nowheresville to interview eleven hot, dusty men who think one woman can handle all of them. I knew you’d find it amusing.”

“Grace, please. Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Do they have Wi-Fi? I’ll book a flight right now just to watch the car crash or, rather, the manure heap you’re about to walk into.”

“Not a cult, apparently. But maybe cult-adjacent?”

“I think cults usually involve one weirdo who wants to live out his King Solomon era. Listen, I fell in love with ten men and walked away from reporting on vibrating underwear to cover refugee justice cases. I’m the poster child for anything can happen .”

I laugh. “That was still the most unexpected life pivot I’ve ever seen.”

“Right? Don’t underestimate cowboy magic, Grace. If I can go from ‘Best Lube for Sensitive Skin’ to exposing political corruption and harem time with a combined hundred inches of man perfection, you can, too.”

“I’m not looking for a harem, Allie. If I could find even one guy who wasn’t more species-linked to dogs than humans, I’d be happy.”

She snorts. “Famous last words.”

“I mean it. I want to do the job and come back in one piece. No horse-riding, no tobacco chewing, no falling in love, and definitely no kid-wrangling. ”

“Sure, sure. Call me after your first hayride when you’re sore and half in love with the one who smells like leather and sin. Oh, wait! They’re all going to smell like leather and sin. And cow shit. Don’t forget that.”

She’s cackling, and I shake my head even though she can’t see. I also don’t bother to hide my smile from whoever is passing my fishbowl office. “You’re impossible.”

“My many, many, many men would disagree. And anyway, what have you got to lose?”

“My last shred of dignity? My last speck of hope in humanity. My self-respect. My goddamned sanity?”

“Go get your story, Grace. And hey, maybe this one’ll change your life, too.”

“It’s doubtful, but good to hear your voice, Allie. Let’s not leave it so long next time.”

“Don’t make me read the cowboy story to find out what happened. I want it blow-by-blow from the horse’s mouth, pun absolutely intended.”

“Nah… an editor’s job’s about preserving readership numbers. You’ll have to buy it like everyone else.”

We both giggle, then say our goodbyes, and I hang up, still smiling. When I glance back at my laptop, my heart skips a beat.

Eleven cowboys. One woman.

I’ve made worse decisions after worse sex.

And if nothing else, at least, they hopefully won’t call me Brandy.

***

I’m packed and ready to go, but before I set out on my first reporting job for eighteen months, I head over to my mom’s house to leave her keys to my apartment in case of an emergency.

There’s a bike in the yard, the screen door is open, and I already hear shouting from inside.

The second I enter the house, I’m swarmed by kids.

Squealing, sticky, wide-eyed kids in superhero pajamas and socks that don’t match.

Jessie hugs my knees. Christopher shouts, “Grace is here!” like I’m Beyoncé.

Davy, wearing mismatched shoes, grabs my hand and tells me about his new hamster, even though I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s holding a turtle.

My mom appears in the doorway, flour on her cheek and a dish towel over one shoulder.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she says, smiling. “You stayin’ for breakfast?”

I shake my head. “On my way to an assignment. Passing through.”

“You sure? I’m making pancakes.”

“I’ll take one for the road.”

The house is exactly as it’s always been: messy, loud, overflowing with love, and laundry in every stage of cleanliness.

Foster kids are everywhere, toys cover every surface.

Someone’s crying, someone’s laughing, and someone’s smearing peanut butter on the fridge.

I pick up a few discarded socks, quickly braid Josie’s hair, and correct Davy’s footwear.

It’s second nature. Familiar.

And still exhausting.

By the time I leave, I’m smiling, but it’s the kind that’s stretched thin.

I love kids. I grew up loving kids. But I also remember what it feels like to get lost in all that noise. To give and give and still feel like a background character in your own life.

This ranch gig? It’s for five days. I can handle anything for five days.

I tell myself that as I drive away, windows down, relief blowing across my skin.

Although my new life is chaotic in many ways, it’s orderly in the ways that matter, and it’ll stay that way if I have anything to say about it.