Chapter 8 #2
“Because, brother,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder, “some things are worth burning shit down for.”
“And Callie Thompson,” Boone adds, “may be one of those things.”
I want to argue more, want to list all the reasons these guys are bad news. But then I remember the way Callie looked last night, wild and free and… bold. I remember the way she challenged her father this morning, turning his anger into absurdity.
“We’re idiots,” I mutter.
“The biggest,” Jesse agrees cheerfully.
“Complete morons,” Boone adds with a grin.
“Dad’s going to kill us.”
“Slowly and painfully.” Jesse nods.
“Hank Thompson might help,” Boone suggests.
“Mrs. Delaney will live-stream it,” I add, and despite everything, I’m fighting a smile.
“So?” Jesse asks. “Are you in or out?”
I think about being responsible, about doing the smart thing, about protecting everyone from heartbreak.
Then I think about Callie.
“I’m in,” I say. “God help me, I’m in.”
“Thank fuck,” Boone exhales. “I already told her we’d see her tonight.”
“You what?” I ask.
“Get over it. You know I’m an optimist!”
The Cedar Ridge Facebook page is having the best day of its existence.
We’re huddled around Boone’s phone, watching our mess unfold in real time. The original post from Mrs. Delaney has over 300 comments and counting.
“About time someone tamed those wild McCoy boys,” Jesse reads aloud. “I’m not wild. I’m civilized. Mostly.”
“Poor Hank Thompson, betrayed by his own daughter’” Boone continues scrolling. “Betrayed seems a bit dramatic.”
“Look at this one.” I point to a comment. “‘I always knew that Callie girl was trouble. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’”
“What tree?” Jesse asks. “The Thompson family tree is more like a shrub. Or a well-maintained hedge.”
“Someone made a poll,” Boone announces. “Who’s Team Callie vs Team Tradition? We’re losing, by the way.”
“Of course we’re losing. The average age of that Facebook group is deceased.”
My phone buzzes with a text.
Callie: Have you seen what Mrs. Delaney posted? Guess I’m Cedar Ridge’s Scarlet Woman now. Thinking about getting business cards made.
Jesse reads over my shoulder and laughs. “At least she’s taking it well.”
Callie: Current status: Hiding in my truck in the diner parking lot because I can see at least six people in there showing each other their phones and looking scandalized. The horror. The drama. The extremely slow internet speed.
Me: Does Rita know?
Callie. Rita doesn’t know how to read. Fortunately.
“Tell her to come here,” Boone suggests.
“Not sure ’bout that,” I say, already typing the invitation.
Callie: Be there in 10. If I’m not, assume Mrs. Delaney has formed a mob and they’re chasing me with pitchforks and ugly Facebook comments.
We continue scrolling. Someone’s started a thread about the “history of the feud” that’s gotten all the facts wrong. According to them, our grandfather stole Hank’s prize cow and married his first love on the same day.
“Granddad was talented, but not that talented,” Jesse says.
“The McCoy boys are corrupting that sweet Thompson girl,” Boone reads in a dramatic voice. “Sweet? Have they met her? She called me an ‘absolute lunatic’ yesterday when I suggested Rita might be part demon.”
“Rita is part demon,” I point out.
“That’s beside the point.”
A truck pulls up outside, and we all pretend we aren’t watching through the window.
Callie walks in looking frazzled but defiant, her phone in one hand and a coffee in the other.
“Guys,” she announces, looking around. “Your dad here?”
I shake my head no.
“Okay good. So, I’ve officially reached peak scandal. Mrs. Delaney tried to stage an intervention in the parking lot. She had printed materials.”
“Materials?” Jesse asks.
“A pamphlet about making good choices and a list of eligible bachelors who aren’t McCoys. Todd Fletcher was highlighted. Twice.”
“Todd Fletcher smells like cheese,” Boone says.
“That’s what I told her! But cheese is preferable to you McCoys, according to some people.”
“That’s a low blow,” Jesse says.
She drops into a chair and pulls up the Facebook page on her phone. “Oh good, someone’s made a meme. I’m the ‘Yeehaw Juliet.’ That’s actually pretty clever.”
“You’re taking this well,” I observe.
“What’s the alternative? Hiding in my room while the town creates increasingly creative narratives about my sex life? At least this is entertaining.”
“They’re destroying your reputation,” I point out.
“My reputation was already weird. Now it’s weird and interesting. I call that a glow-up.”
Her phone pings repeatedly. “Oh look, seventeen new comments. Let’s see... ‘shameful,’ ‘disappointing,’ ‘what would her mother think’—that’s always a crowd-pleaser—and someone’s offered to pray for my soul. How thoughtful.”
“This isn’t funny, Callie.”
“It’s a little funny. Mrs. Delaney used the hashtag ‘CountryDrama.’ She’s seventy-three years old. Where did she even learn about hashtags?”
“Your life is being torn apart on social media and you’re critiquing hashtag usage?”
“Would you prefer I cry? Throw myself dramatically on a fainting couch? Write poetry about my ruined virtue?”
“I’d prefer you take this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously,” she says, her smile faltering slightly. “But if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll have to actually think about the fact that everyone I’ve known since childhood is currently dissecting my life choices like I’m the problem child at a church social.”
The room goes quiet as that sinks in.
“Screw them,” Jesse says finally. “Screw all of them.”
“That’s your solution?” I ask. “Screw them?”
“Yeah. They want drama? We’ll give them drama. They want scandal? We’ll give them something to really talk about,” Jesse says with a huge smile.
He never changes. “That’s the worst possible—”
“I’m in,” Callie interrupts. “What do you have in mind?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not. We’re not doubling down.”
“Why not?” Boone asks. “They’re going to talk anyway. Might as well give them something worth talking about.”
“Because it’s a terrible idea!”
“A terrible idea is letting Mrs. Delaney control the narrative,” Callie says. “At least if we’re going to be scandalized, we should do it on our own terms.”
Her phone buzzes again. She looks at it and laughs, but it’s bitter. “Todd Fletcher just liked Mrs. Delaney’s post about eligible bachelors. He added a winky face emoji. I hope she doesn’t give him my number.”
“That’s it,” Jesse declares. “We’re taking control of this situation.”
“How?” I demand.
“By being so absolutely, unapologetically ourselves that they won’t know what hit them.”
“That’s not a plan, that’s a fever dream.”
“It’s better than hiding,” Callie says quietly. “It’s better than letting them win.”
She stands up, squaring her shoulders in that way I’m beginning to recognize as preparing for battle.
“You know what? Jesse’s right. If Cedar Ridge wants a scandal, let’s give them one they’ll be talking about for the next thirty years. Maybe drown out the potato salad brouhaha.”
“Callie—”
“I’m tired of being careful, Wyatt. Tired of worrying what everyone thinks. Tired of living my life according to their expectations.”
“This could make everything worse. Just sayin’.”
“Or,” she says, meeting my eyes with a defiant spark, “it could make everything better. Either way, at least we’ll be doing something instead of just taking it.”
I love a fierce woman.
I mean like. I like a fierce woman.
“I hate this plan,” I mutter.
“Noted,” she says with a grin that makes my chest tight. “Now, are you going to help us, or are you going to stand there being responsible while we have all the fun?”
I find her an hour later, after she said she needed some air. She’s sitting in her truck in our driveway, Rita in the passenger seat, and from the way her shoulders are shaking, I can tell she’s crying.
I knock gently on the window. “You okay?”
She looks up, tears streaming down her face, and tries to smile. “Peachy. Just having a moment with my emotional support goat.”
“Can I come in?”
She nods, and I walk around to climb in the driver’s side, carefully moving her to the middle of the bench seat. Rita tries to take a bite out of my shirt.
“Rita, no,” Callie says weakly, pulling the goat back. “We don’t eat the McCoys. That’s poor etiquette.”
“Since when has Rita cared about etiquette?”
“Fair point.” She wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “Sorry. I said I was fine with everything, and then I got out here and just... broke.”
“It’s a lot,” I say carefully.
“Yeah.” Her voice cracks. “My dad won’t even look at me. The whole town thinks I’m some kind of... I don’t know, rebel seductress. And I keep thinking... am I wrecking both families? Am I destroying everything for something that might not even be anything?”
Rita bleats softly and starts nibbling Callie’s hair, which makes her laugh through her tears. “What are we doing, Wyatt?”
“Don’t know.”
“That’s not very reassuring.”
“Would you prefer I lie?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Okay. Everything’s going to be fine. The town will forget about this by tomorrow. Your dad will come around. Mrs. Delaney will find a new hobby.”
“Better lies, please.”
“Rita will learn to behave. The feud will end peacefully. Todd Fletcher will stop smelling like cheese.”
That gets a laugh. “Now that’s just crazy talk.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, Rita munching contentedly on what appears to be an old parking ticket.
“I’m scared,” Callie admits. “I’m scared that I’m making a mistake. That I’m ruining everything for everyone. That you and your brothers will realize I’m not worth all this trouble.”
“Hey.” I turn to face her fully. “Look at me.”
She does, still tearing up.
“You’re worth it,” I tell her firmly. “You’re worth the gossip and the drama and the family fights. You’re worth Todd Fletcher’s winky face emojis and Mrs. Delaney’s hashtags. You’re worth everything.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
“What do you know?”
“I know you named your goat Rita because it sounds like ‘fajita’ and you thought that was hilarious. I know you sing to your chickens when you think no one’s listening. I know you can’t make coffee without spilling it, but you make the best sweet tea in three counties.”
“Those are just facts.”
“I know you’re brave enough to stand up to anyone, but kind enough to help a turtle cross the road.
I know you’re smart enough to see through everyone’s BS, but generous enough not to call them on it unless they deserve it.
I know you’re the only person who’s ever made me want to break some of the rules I’ve set for myself. ”
She looks up at me. “Only some of the rules.”
“Hey, baby steps,” I say, running my fingers through her hair.
She stares at me for a moment, which Rita ruins by trying to steal my wallet from my pocket.
“Rita!” Callie grabs for it, but the goat’s already got her teeth in my driver’s license. “I’m so sorry, she has a thing about government documents.”
“It’s fine,” I say, wrestling my wallet back. “Though explaining to the DMV that a goat ate my license will be interesting.”
“I could write you a note. ‘Please excuse Wyatt’s missing license. Rita was feeling peckish.’”
“I’m sure they’d understand.”
She leans her head on my shoulder, and I wrap an arm around her. Rita, feeling left out, tries to climb into my lap.
“No,” I tell her firmly. “There’s a weight limit on this lap, and you exceed it.”
Rita bleats indignantly.
“Don’t body-shame my goat,” Callie says, but she’s smiling now.
“I’m not shaming her. I’m establishing boundaries.”
“Since when do McCoys respect boundaries?”
“Since Thompson women started crossing them.”
“I crossed them first?”
“You and your goat crossed every boundary the day you crashed into us at the fair.”
“That was Rita’s fault.”
“It’s always Rita’s fault.”
Rita bleats again, and this time it sounds like agreement.
Callie sits up and looks at me seriously. “Are we really doing this? All of us?”
“Looks like it.”
“Your dad’s going to lose his mind.”
“Probably.”
“Mine too.”
“Definitely.”
“The whole town will talk.”
“They’re already talking.”
“Mrs. Delaney will make us famous.”
“Infamous,” I correct.
“Same thing in Cedar Ridge.”
She reaches up and touches my face, her fingers gentle against my jaw. “Thank you. For finding me. For letting me cry. For not trying to fix everything.”
“I always try to fix everything.”
“Not this time. This time, you let me be a mess.”
“You’re not a mess. You’re human.”
“I’m a human mess.”
“The best kind.”
She kisses me, and it’s nothing like the desperate heat of before. This is something else, something that makes my chest tight and my brain stop working.
When she pulls back, Rita is chewing on my sleeve.
“Rita!”
“It’s fine,” I say, not taking my eyes off Callie. “She can have the whole shirt if she wants.”
“Don’t encourage her. She already has a collection of stolen clothing.”
“A collection?”
“Three belts, two shirts, and a pair of Jesse’s underwear that I’m not asking questions about.”
“Good call.”
She checks her phone and sighs at the notification count. “Sixty-seven new comments. I’m afraid to look.”
“Then don’t.”
“I have to eventually.”
“No, you don’t. You could throw your phone in the pond and live off the grid. Raise goats professionally. Become a hermit.”
“A hermit with three cowboys?”
“We’d visit on weekends.” She laughs, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all day. “Okay. I’m ready to go back in and face whatever half-baked plan Jesse’s cooked up.”
“You sure?”
“No. But I’m tired of sitting in my truck crying while Rita judges me.”
“Rita shouldn’t judge. At least not until she gets her own act together,” I say.
“My emotional support goat is also my chaos manager. It’s very on-brand for my life.”
We climb out of the truck, Rita hopping down after us with surprising grace.
As we walk back toward the house, Callie takes my hand.
“Hey, Wyatt?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re definitely going to hell for this, aren’t we?”
“Definitely.”
“Good. I hear they have better music down there anyway.”
“And no Mrs. Delaney.”
“Sold. Let’s go make some bad decisions.”
And despite everything—the gossip, the family drama, the complete insanity of the situation—I squeeze her hand and follow her toward whatever disaster Jesse and Boone have planned.
Because sometimes the best things in life are also the worst ideas.
And Callie Thompson is definitely both.