I last wrote about Aaron, aka Cowboy, here, nearly exactly seven years ago. We were supposed to go to his family's ranch up in the Shuswap. I sat waiting with my bag packed, waiting for him to call. He never called. I wrote then, "There will be a valid excuse. There always is."

Well, seven years later, I hear the excuse. I only half believe it, but it's an excuse nevertheless. He claims to have been hit by a car, in hospital for 11 months, followed by deep depression.

I told him how mad I was at him for disappearing. I told him that I thought that he'd left me for a heli skiing babe.

"Do you want to know the truth?"

"Sure," I say, "bring it on."

"I was head over heels."

I sit there staring at the screen, reading this over and over. One half of my heart thumps, remembering him, what we had, how much I adored him. The other half, my cynical side, scoffs, thinking that he's a noncommittal jerk who's experiencing some regrets at age 32.

It's too bad, really. We could have had an interesting life together. With him, I could have accomplished some life goals a lot sooner. He is country. He has horses and property and cows and cats. He shoes horses. He is a paramedic. He's so much different from anyone I ever met, from anyone who was ever interested in me.