Chapter 13
Callie
Friday night at Rowdy’s Honky-Tonk is always packed, but tonight it’s shoulder-to-shoulder, can’t-hear-yourself-think packed.
The band’s playing something loud and twangy, the dance floor’s full of couples two-stepping with varying degrees of skill, and I’m nursing a beer at the bar, trying to remember why I thought coming here would help me clear my head.
“You look like someone stole your puppy,” the bartender says, sliding me a water.
“Hey Kit,” I say, taking a gulp. “I don’t have a puppy. I have a goat who thinks she’s a demolition expert.”
“Same emotional impact though, right?” she asks.
“Rita’s never been emotionally supportive. She’s emotionally draining. There’s a difference.”
Kit studies me. “This is about those McCoy boys, isn’t it?”
Damn her.
“What makes you think that?” I ask, summoning all the perkiness I can.
“Well, the fact that you keep looking at the door every time it opens, you’re on your third beer, and you have that expression people get when they’re trying to convince themselves they haven’t made a mess of their lives.”
“I’m not—”
The door opens. I look. It’s not them.
“See?” Kit says.
“I’m just people-watching.”
“You’re McCoy-watching. There’s a difference.”
Before I can argue, the door opens again and this time it is them, and while I adore Kit, I also hate her for being right. The guys, looking good in that unfair way they have, fit in perfectly. Jesse sees me first and his face lights up. I look away.
They take a table across the room, but I can feel them looking at me. Feel the weight of their attention like a physical weight. I stare at the bubbles in my beer, wishing I could disappear into them.
“Go talk to them,” Kit says, gesturing with her chin.
“I think I need some space.”
“Oh? And how’s that working out for you?”
“Great. Fantastic. I’m thriving.”
“You’re miserable. You should see yourself.”
She’s not wrong, but I’m not ready to admit that.
That’s when I see her. Tall, blonde, legs for days, wearing a dress that’s basically a suggestion. Jesse’s ex, Madison. The one who cheated on him with a bull rider from out of state but somehow convinced half the town it was Jesse’s fault they broke up.
She heads straight for the brothers’ table, clearly on a mission.
“Oh no,” Kit mutters.
“Oh yes.”
Madison reaches their table and immediately drapes herself over Jesse. He looks uncomfortable, trying to lean away, but she’s persistent. She’s saying something I can’t hear, but her hand on his chest, her body pressed against his, says it all.
“Damn that’s bold,” Kit observes. “That woman is pure trouble.”
Jesse’s trying to politely extract himself. I can see it in his body language. Boone’s saying something that looks like “back off” based on his expression. Wyatt’s just watching with that stone face he gets when he’s angry but controlling it.
Then Madison pulls out her phone.
“She’s not gonna—” Kit says.
“She is,” I confirm.
Madison wraps her arm around Jesse’s neck, pulls him close, and before he can react, she’s kissing him. The flash goes off. Multiple flashes actually, because she’s taking a burst of photos.
My beer bottle hits the bar harder than intended.
Jesse shoves her away, but it’s too late. She’s got her photos. She’s already looking at her phone, probably picking the best one to post with some caption about “reconnecting with my first love” or equally nauseating bullshit.
I’m moving before I realize I’ve made the decision. Not toward them, toward the door. I need out. Need air. Need to not watch Jesse’s ex stake a claim on something I should not give a shit about but do.
“Callie, wait—” Kit calls, but I’m already pushing through the crowd.
Behind me, I hear a crash. I glance back to see Boone has stood up too fast, slipped in what looks like spilled beer, and taken out a table on his way down. Glasses shatter. People jump back. The band doesn’t even pause, just plays louder like this is part of the show.
Jesse’s calling my name, but Madison’s between us, her phone still out, probably already uploading those photos to every social media platform she’s on.
I make it to the door and to the parking lot. The cool air hits my hot face and I realize I’m angrier than I have any right to be. Jesse’s not mine. None of them are mine. I don’t get to be jealous when his ex makes a move.
But I am. Jealous and angry and hurt in a way that makes no absolutely no sense.
I’m such an idiot.
“Callie!” Jesse’s voice carries across the parking lot.
I don’t turn around. I get in my truck, start the engine, and peel out of the parking lot faster than I should.
In my rearview mirror, I see Jesse standing where my truck was, Madison probably somewhere behind him with her phone and her photos and her claim on him that predates anything we sort of had.
“I’m the sane one here,” I mutter to myself, gripping the steering wheel. “I don’t need this shit. I’ve got enough problems without adding jealous ex-girlfriends to the mix.”
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. Jesse calling. I don’t answer.
It buzzes again. A text this time.
Jesse: That wasn’t what it looked like.
Another buzz.
Boone: Jesse literally pushed her out of the way. It was beautiful. Also, I’m banned from the bar for a month.
Another one
Wyatt: Come back.
I turn my phone off and keep driving.
I don’t need this right now. Don’t need the complication of them, of Madison, of the whole town watching and waiting for more Thompson vs. McCoy shitshow. I’ve got enough trouble with Dad’s secret romance and Rita’s crime spree and trying to figure out what to do with my life.
But as I drive home, all I can see is Madison’s arm around Jesse’s neck, and the way she was sure to glance at me right before she kissed him like she was marking territory.
Territory I have no claim to.
Two nights later, I follow my father like some kind of bargain-bin private investigator.
He left the house at eight p.m. claiming he had to “check on something at the north pasture.” Yeah right, Dad.
He must think I’m blind. The man is dressed nicer than usual and wearing his cologne again, the one they had on special at the general store.
The north pasture doesn’t require cologne.
The north pasture barely requires pants.
I stay three car lengths behind, lights off, relying on his taillights and the half-moon to navigate. Which is probably illegal. Definitely unethical. But Dad’s been acting stranger than usual and I want to know what’s going on.
He passes the turn for the north pasture without even slowing down.
“Knew it,” I mutter, continuing to follow.
He heads toward town, taking the long way to avoid Main Street. Avoiding witnesses, more like.
Then he turns onto Willow Lane and my heart starts racing because I know who lives on Willow Lane. There’s only one house on this street that matters, one person who could make Hank Thompson act like a teenager with a secret.
He slows down near Mrs. Delaney’s house.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
I was right.
But he’s pulling into her driveway and—wait, he’s backing up. Fast. Too fast. He clips her trash can with a bang that echoes in the quiet night and speeds off like he’s fleeing a crime scene.
Did he see me? He must have seen me. Why else would he panic and run?
Mrs. Delaney’s porch light flicks on. She steps out in a robe that’s decidedly not appropriate for checking on trash cans. It’s silky. And pink. The kind of robe you wear when you’re expecting company, not investigating property damage.
She looks at the knocked-over trash can, then up and down the street. Her eyes land on my truck, parked badly in the shadow of a tree that’s not doing much to hide me.
We stare at each other across the distance. Even in the dim light, I can see her expression shift from confusion to understanding to something that might be… embarrassment?
Dad and Mrs. Delaney, the town gossip. The woman who’s made a career out of everyone else’s business. The person who live-tweeted my cousin’s wedding mess and created a Facebook group dedicated to “Cedar Ridge Drama Watch.”
She’s now walking toward my truck with the determination of someone who’s decided to face the music.
I could drive away. Should drive away. This is none of my business, even if it is my father.
But I stay, rolling down my window as she approaches.
“Callie,” she says, and her voice is different. Softer. Without the usual edge of someone gathering gossip ammunition.
“Mrs. Delaney.”
“I suppose you have questions.”
“Is my father having a midlife crisis or are you two actually...”
“We’re actually.” She pulls her robe tighter. “Have been for a while.”
“A while?” My voice cracks. “My father’s been secretly dating for a while?”
“He wanted to tell you but he was scared. Your father, despite his gruff exterior, is terrified of disappointing you.”
“Disappointing me? By dating? I’ve been trying to get him to date for years!”
She looks down for a second, pulling the sash tighter on her robe. “By dating me. The town gossip. The woman who’s made sport of both your family and the McCoy’s.”
Wow. I did not expect this level of introspection.
I always considered Mrs. Delaney as clueless and insensitive.
I mean, she’s a nice woman and all, but she never seems to have much regard for anyone she might be hurting with that blabbermouth of hers.
This is the woman who posted thirty-seven photos of the McCoy-Thompson chili incident.
Who started the hashtag #GoatGate. Who turned our family feud into entertainment content.
“Why?” I ask. “Why my dad?”
She smiles, and it transforms her face. “Because he makes me laugh. Because he’s kind under all that grumbling. Because he looks at me like I’m more than just the town busybody. Because when I’m with him, I don’t need to fill the silence with other people’s stories.”
“And he knows you’re... you?”