One of the New York Times 10 Best Books of 2009-- now adapted into the feature film Certain Women, starring Kristen Stewart-- award-winning writer Maile Meloy's short stories explore complex lives in an austere landscape with the clear-sightedness that first endeared her to readers. Don't miss her new novel, Do Not Become Alarmed. 

Meloy's first return to short stories since her critically acclaimed debut,  Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It is an extraordinary new work from one of the most promising writers of the last decade.

Eleven unforgettable new stories demonstrate the emotional power and the clean, assured style that have earned Meloy praise from critics and devotion from readers. Propelled by a terrific instinct for storytelling, and concerned with the convolutions of modern love and the importance of place, this collection is about the battlefields-and fields of victory-that exist in seemingly harmless spaces, in kitchens and living rooms and cars. Set mostly in the American West, the stories feature small-town lawyers, ranchers, doctors, parents, and children, and explore the moral quandaries of love, family, and friendship. A ranch hand falls for a recent law school graduate who appears unexpectedly- and reluctantly-in his remote Montana town. A young father opens his door to find his dead grandmother standing on the front step. Two women weigh love and betrayal during an early snow. Throughout the book, Meloy examines the tensions between having and wanting, as her characters try to keep hold of opposing forces in their lives: innocence and experience, risk and stability, fidelity and desire.

Knowing, sly, and bittersweet,  Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It confirms Maile Meloy's singular literary talent. Her lean, controlled prose, full of insight and unexpected poignancy, is the perfect complement to her powerfully moving storytelling.

"Though it might seem strange to praise a writer for the things she doesn't do, what really sets Meloy apart is her restraint. She is impressively concise, disciplined in length and scope. And she's balanced in her approach to character, neither blinded by love for her creations, nor abusive toward them. . . . She's such a talented and unpredictable writer that I'm officially joining her fan club; whatever she writes next, I'll gladly read it."
-Curtis Sittenfeld, The New York Times Book Review

"After two well-received novels, Meloy returns to the short story, the form in which she made her notable debut and to which her lucid style is arrestingly well suited. Many of these stories are set in Meloy's native Montana, and all are about domestic distress-about love, mostly, and the trouble stirred up by its often inconvenient insistence. Several are poised in the limbo of adultery, in the time between act and confession. Always true to her wide-ranging though consistently introspective characters, Meloy convincingly depicts the inchoate emotion that drives people, while also distilling meaning from it."
- The Atlantic

"If life is all about choices, as the saying goes, then what happens when we simply can't make up our minds about what's most important? In her second volume of short stories, Both Ways Is the Only Way I Want It acclaimed; novelist Maile Meloy ( Liars and Saints, A Family Daughter), who first stunned critics in 2002 with her debut story collection, Half in Love, cracks at our nagging desire to have it all (the answers, the romance, the payout, and, in one case, the late grandmother come back to life) in 11 tightly written, remarkably fluid narratives, most of which unfold in sleepy towns across Meloy's native Montana."
- Elle

Maile Meloy is the author of the story collection Half in Love, and the novels Liars and Saints, shortlisted for the 2005 Orange Prize, and A Family Daughter. Meloy’s stories have been published in The New Yorker, and she has received The Paris Review’s Aga Khan Prize for Fiction, the PEN/Malamud Award, the Rosenthal Foundation Award, and a Guggenheim Fellowship. In 2007, she was chosen as one of Granta’s Best American Novelists under 35. THer short stories were adapted into the 2016 film,  Certain Women, starring Kristen Stewart and Michelle Williams. She lives in California.

Travis, B .

Chet Moran grew up in Logan, Montana, at a timewhen kids weren’t supposed to get polio anymore. InLogan, they still did, and he had it before he was two. He recovered,but his right hip never fit in the socket, and hismother always thought he would die young.

When he was fourteen, he started riding spoiled and un-brokehorses, to prove to her that he was invincible. Theybucked and kicked and piled up on him, again and again. Hedeveloped a theory that horses didn’t kick or shy becausethey were wild; they kicked and shied because for millionsof years they’d had the instinct to move fast or be lion meat.

“You mean because they’re wild,” his father had saidwhen Chet advanced this theory.

He couldn’t explain, but he thought his father was wrong.He thought there was a difference, and that what peoplemeant when they called a thing “wild” was not what he sawin the green horses at all.

He was small and wiry, but his hip made it hard for himto scramble out from under the horses, and he broke hisright kneecap, his right foot, and his left femur before he waseighteen. His father drove him to Great Falls, where thedoctors put a steel rod in his good leg from hip to knee.From then on, he walked as though he were turning to himselfto ask a question.

His size came from his mother, who was three-quartersCheyenne; his father was Irish and bullheaded. They hadvague dreams of improvement for their sons, but no ideasabout how to achieve them. His older brother joined thearmy. Watching him board an eastbound train, handsomeand straight-limbed in his uniform, Chet wondered whyGod or fate had so favored his brother. Why had the cardsbeen so unevenly dealt?

He left home at twenty and moved up north to the highline.He got a job outside Havre feeding cows through thewinter, while the rancher’s family lived in town and the kidswere in school. Whenever the roads were clear, he rode tothe nearest neighbors’ for a game of pinochle, but mostly hewas snowed in and alone. He had plenty of food, and goodTV reception. He had some girlie magazines that he got toknow better than he’d ever known an actual person. Hespent his twenty-first birthday wearing long johns undertwo flannel shirts and his winter coat, warming up soup onthe stove. He got afraid of himself that winter; he sensedsomething dangerous that would break free if he kept somuch alone.

In the spring, he got a job in Billings, in an office withfriendly secretaries and coffee breaks spent talking about rodeosand sports. They liked him there, and offered to sendhim to the main office in Chicago. He went home to hisrented room and walked around on his stiff hip, and guessedhe’d be stove up in a wheelchair in three years if he kept sittingaround an office. He quit the job and bucked bales allsummer, for hardly any money, and the pain went out of hiship, unless he stepped wrong.

That winter, he took another feeding job, outside Glendive,on the North Dakota border. He thought if he wenteast instead of north, there might not be so much snow. Helived in an insulated room built into the barn, with a TV, acouch, a hot plate, and an icebox, and he fed the cows witha team and sled. He bought some new magazines, in whichthe girls were strangers to him, and he watched Starsky andHutch and the local news. At night, he could hear the horsesmoving in their stalls. But he’d been wrong about the snow;by October it had already started. He made it throughChristmas, with packages and letters from his mother, but inJanuary he got afraid of himself again. The fear was not particular.It began as a buzzing feeling around his spine, a restlessnesswithout a specific aim.

The rancher had left him a truck, with a headbolt heateron an extension cord, and he warmed it up one night anddrove the snowy road into town. The café was open, but hewasn’t hungry. The gas pumps stood in an island of bluishlight, but the truck’s tank was full. He knew no pinochleplayers here, to help him pass the time. He turned off themain street to loop through town, and he drove by theschool. A light was on at a side door and people were leavingtheir cars in the lot and going inside. He slowed, parked onthe street, and watched them. He ran a hand around thesteering wheel and tugged at a loose thread on its wornleather grip. Finally he got out of the truck, turned his collarup against the cold, and followed the people inside.

One classroom had its lights on, and the people he hadfollowed were sitting in the too-small desks, saying hello asif they all knew each other. Construction-paper signs andpictures covered the walls, and the cursive alphabet ran alongthe top of the chalkboard. Most of the people were about hisparents’ age, though their faces were softer, and they dressedas though they lived in town, in thin shoes and clean brightjackets. He went to the back of the room and took a seat. Heleft his coat on, a big old sheepskin-lined denim, and hechecked his boots to see what he might have dragged in, butthey were clean from walking through snow.

“We should have gotten a high school room,” one of themen said.

A lady—a girl—stood at the teacher’s desk at the front ofthe room, taking papers from a briefcase. She had curly lightcoloredhair and wore a gray wool skirt and a blue sweater,and glasses with wire rims. She was thin, and looked tired andnervous. Everyone grew quiet and waited for her to speak.

“I’ve never done this before,” she said. “I’m not sure howto start. Do you want to introduce yourselves?”

“We all know each other,” a gray-haired woman said.

“Well, she doesn’t,” another woman protested.

“You could tell me what you know about school law,”the young teacher said.

The adults in the small desks looked at each other. “Idon’t think we know anything,” someone said.

“That’s why we’re here.”

The girl looked helpless for a second and then turned tothe chalkboard. Her bottom was a smooth curve in the woolskirt. She wrote “Adult Ed 302” and her name, Beth Travis,and the chalk squeaked on the h and the r. The men andwomen in the desks flinched.

“If you hold it straight up,” an older woman said, demonstratingwith a pencil, “with your thumb along the side, itwon’t do that.”

Beth Travis blushed, and changed her grip, and began totalk about state and federal law as it applied to the publicschool system. Chet found a pencil in his desk and held itlike the woman had said to hold the chalk. He wonderedwhy no one had ever showed him that in his school days.

The class took notes, and he sat in the back and listened.Beth Travis was a lawyer, it seemed. Chet’s father told jokesabout lawyers, but the lawyers were never girls. The class wasfull of teachers, who asked things he’d never thought of,about students’ rights and parents’ rights. He’d never imagineda student had any rights. His mother had grown up inthe mission school in St. Xavier, where the Indian kids werebeaten for not speaking English, or for no reason. He’d beenluckier. An English teacher had once struck him on the headwith a dictionary, and a math teacher had splintered a yardstickon his desk. But in general they had been no trouble.

Once, Beth Travis seemed about to ask him something,but one of the teachers raised a hand, and he was saved.

At nine o’clock the class was over, and the teachersthanked Miss Travis and said she’d done well. They talked toeach other about going someplace for a beer. He felt heshould stay and explain himself, so he stayed in his desk. Hiship was starting to stiffen from sitting so long.

Miss Travis packed up her briefcase and put on her puffyred coat, which made her look like a balloon. “Are you staying?”she asked.

“No, ma’am.” He levered himself out from behindthe desk.

“Are you registered for the class?”

“No, ma’am. I just saw people coming in.”

“Are you interested in school law?”

He thought about how to answer that. “I wasn’t beforetonight.”

She looked at her watch, which was thin and gold-colored.“Is there somewhere to get food?” she asked. “I haveto drive back to Missoula.”

The interstate ran straight across Montana, from the edgeof North Dakota, where they were, west through Billingsand Bozeman and past Logan, where he had grown up, overthe mountains to Missoula, near the Idaho border. “That’s anawful long drive,” he said.

She shook her head, not in disagreement but in amazement.“I took this job before I finished law school,” she said.“I wanted any job, I was so afraid of my loans coming due. Ididn’t know where Glendive was. It looks like Belgrade, theword does I mean, which is closer to Missoula—I must havegotten them confused. Then I got a real job, and they’re lettingme do this because they think it’s funny. But it took menine and a half hours to get here. And now I have to drivenine and a half hours back, and I have to work in the morning.I’ve never done anything so stupid in my life.”

“I can show you where the café is,” he said.

She looked like she was wondering whether to fear him,and then she nodded. “Okay,” she said.

In the parking lot, he was self-conscious about his gait,but she didn’t seem to notice. She got into a yellow Datsunand followed his truck to the café on the main drag. Heguessed she could have found it herself, but he wanted moretime with her. He went in and sat opposite her in a booth.She ordered coffee and a turkey sandwich and a browniesundae, and asked the waitress to bring it all at once. Hedidn’t want anything. The waitress left, and Beth Travis tookoff her glasses and set them on the table. She rubbed her eyesuntil they were red.

“Did you grow up here?” she asked. “Do you know thoseteachers?”

“No, ma’am.”

She put her glasses back on. “I’m only twenty-five,” shesaid. “Don’t call me that.”

He didn’t say anything. She was three years older than hewas. Her hair in the overhead light was the color of honey.She wasn’t wearing any rings.

“Did you tell me how you ended up in that class?” sheasked.

“I just saw people going in.”

She studied him and seemed to wonder again if sheshould be afraid. But the room was bright, and he tried tolook harmless. He was harmless, he was pretty sure. Beingwith someone helped—he didn’t feel so wound up andrestless.

“Did I make a fool of myself ?” she asked.

“No.”

“Are you going to come back?”

“When’s it next?”

“Thursday,” she said. “Every Tuesday and Thursday fornine weeks. Oh, God.” She put her hands over her eyes again.“What have I done?”

He tried to think how he could help her. He had to staywith the cows, and driving to pick her up in Missoula didn’tmake any sense. It was so far away, and they’d just have todrive back again.

“I’m not signed up,” he finally said.

She shrugged. “They’re not going to check.”

Her food came, and she started on the sandwich.

“I don’t even know school law,” she said. “I’ll have tolearn enough to teach every time.” She wiped a spot of mustardfrom her chin. “Where do you work?”

“Out on the Hayden ranch, feeding cattle. It’s just a winterjob.”

“Do you want the other half of this sandwich?”

He shook his head, and she pushed the plate aside andtook a bite of the melting sundae.

“I’d show you if you could stay longer,” he said.

“Show me what?”

“The ranch,” he said. “The cows.”

“I have to get back,” she said. “I have to work in themorning.”

She checked her watch. “Jesus, it’s quarter to ten.” Shetook a few quick bites of sundae and finished her coffee. “Ihave to go.”

He watched as the low lights of the Datsun disappearedout of town, then he drove home in the other direction.Thursday was not very far from Tuesday, and it was almostWednesday now. He was suddenly starving, when sitting acrossfrom her he hadn’t been hungry. He wished he’d taken theother half of the sandwich, but he had been too shy.

Thursday night, he was at the school before anyoneelse, and he waited in the truck, watching. One ofthe teachers showed up with a key, unlocked the side door,and turned on the light. When more people had arrived,Chet went to his seat in the back of the classroom. BethTravis came in looking tired, took off her coat, and pulleda sheaf of paper from her briefcase. She was wearing agreen sweater with a turtleneck collar, jeans, and black snowboots. She walked around with the handouts and noddedto him. She looked good in jeans. “KEY SUPREME COURT DECISIONSAFFECTING SCHOOL LAW,” the handout said acrossthe top.

The class started, and hands went up to ask questions. Hesat in the back and watched, and tried to imagine his oldteachers here, but he couldn’t. A man not much older thanChet asked about salary increases, and Beth Travis said shewasn’t a labor organizer, but he should talk to the union. Theolder women in the class laughed and teased the man aboutrabble-rousing. At nine o’clock the class left for beers, andhe was alone again with Beth Travis.

“I have to lock up,” she said.

He had assumed, for forty-eight hours, that he would goto dinner with her, but now he didn’t know how to makethat happen. He had never asked any girl anywhere. Therehad been girls in high school who had felt sorry for him, buthe had been too shy or too proud to take advantage of it. Hestood there for an awkward moment.

“Are you going to the café?” he finally asked.

“For about five minutes,” she said.

In the café, she asked the waitress for the fastest thing onthe menu. The waitress brought her a bowl of soup withbread, coffee to go, and the check.

When the waitress left,