Chapter 13 #2
“He knows exactly who I am. What I’ve done. The stories I’ve spread.” She looks down. “I’ve apologized. Many times. I’m trying to be better.”
“By secretly dating him?”
“By keeping something private for once in my life. By having something that’s just ours, not the town’s entertainment.”
“Seems like he likes you,” I say, remembering the humming, the flowers, the smile he tries to hide when he’s texting.
“I like him too,” she says.
The thought of Mrs. Delaney with my father is kind of horrifying. But there’s something about the way she says it, vulnerable and honest, that makes it sweet.
“This is weird,” I tell her.
“Incredibly weird.”
“The town’s going to lose their minds when they find out.”
“They certainly will.”
“You know you’ll have to stop gossiping about the McCoys and me if you’re dating my father. Conflict of interest and all that.”
“I’ve already stopped. Haven’t you noticed? No posts about you and the McCoy boys in weeks.”
Now that she mentions it, she’s right. The usual flood of speculation and photos has dried up.
Dad’s truck reappears at the end of the street, moving slowly like he’s not sure if he should come back or keep running.
“I should go,” I say.
“Callie?” Mrs. Delaney touches my arm through the window. “Give him a chance? He’s happier than I’ve seen him since your mother died.”
She trots back to her house and a minute later, Dad’s truck pulls into her driveway, properly this time. He gets out and goes inside. Doesn’t even knock. It must be serious.
I drive away, leaving my father and the town gossip to their secret romance. As I go, I can’t help but think that if Hank Thompson can fall for Mrs. Delaney, anything’s possible.
Maybe even three cowboys and a Thompson girl.
But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, I need to process the fact that my father’s dating the woman who once did not look kindly on the Thompson family.
How things change.
Or don’t.
The next evening, my phone buzzes with multiple texts.
Jesse: Roping competition tonight. You should come.
Boone: There will be nachos. Quality nachos. With real cheese.
Wyatt: We’d like to see you.
Simple. Direct. No pressure. Just an invitation to something normal, something public, something that doesn’t involve sneaking around or pretending we don’t know each other.
Without hesitation, I text back.
Me: Busy.
I’m not busy. Not by a longshot. Unless you call “busy” sitting on my porch with Rita staring at nothing, accomplishing nothing, being nothing. Feeling sorry for ourselves.
They don’t need to know that.
My phone buzzes again. Jesse’s sent a photo from the competition. He’s on a horse, rope in hand, looking focused and competent and damn hot. The crowd’s visible in the background, and is that Madison? It looks like Madison. Sitting in the front row.
Well, fuck me.
I scroll back to the photos from last night, scattered all over social media. Madison posting with Jesse. Madeline kissing Jesse. Her captions are gross, too: #Some things are meant to be #SecondChances #FirstLove
The comments are worse: “You two were always perfect together!” “Finally! I’ve been waiting for this!” “Poor Callie Thompson... but she was never right for him anyway.”
That last one stings more than it should.
Rita makes a sound that’s part bleat, part question.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
She headbutts my knee, which is either sympathy or an attempt to knock my phone out of my hand.
Another text comes in.
Boone: Madison’s here being annoying. Jesse told her it’s not gonna happen. Twice. Very satisfying.
Then another…
Boone: He keeps looking at the parking lot. Looking for you.
I turn my phone face down and lean back in my chair. The evening’s warm with the crickets starting their nightly symphony. So peaceful. It’s all exactly what I said I wanted… space to think, time to figure my shit out.
Like that’s gonna happen.
Then why does it feel like I’m missing something? Something important?
“Too many cowboys, too much drama,” I tell Rita. “I don’t need it.”
Rita bleats, and it sounds distinctly like disagreement.
“What do you know? You’re a goat.”
She bleats again, longer this time, and fixes me with those weird rectangular pupils that make her look like she knows something.
“I’m protecting myself,” I explain. “From getting hurt. From disappointment. From becoming the town scandal.”
Rita stands up, walks to the porch steps, and looks back at me expectantly.
“I’m not going to the roping competition.”
She bleats again, insistent.
“Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, Madison’s there. She’s already staking her claim, making it clear Jesse’s hers.”
Rita walks back, grabs my shirt in her teeth, and pulls.
“Stop it. This shirt was expensive. Well, twenty dollars, but that’s expensive for me.”
She pulls harder.
“Rita, I said no—”
My phone buzzes.
Wyatt: We miss you.
Three words. Simple. Honest. Devastating.
I look at Rita, who’s still holding my shirt.
“It’s easier this way,” I tell her. “For everyone.”
She lets go of my shirt and headbutts me harder this time, right in the stomach.
“Ow! What is wrong with you?”
She bleats again, and this time, it sounds kind of like “coward.”
“You can’t call me a coward. You’re a goat. Goats don’t talk.”
But, she wouldn’t be wrong. I am being a coward. Sitting here on my porch, hiding from feelings, from difficulties, from the possibility of something that could be… pretty cool.
My phone buzzes again. Jesse’s sent a video this time. He’s successfully roped a calf, the crowd’s cheering, and he’s looking directly at the camera. “Wish you were here, pretty lady.”
Then the camera swings around and there’s Madison, trying to get in the frame, reaching for him. The video cuts off.
“See?” I tell Rita. “Ex-girlfriends with prior claims.”
Rita lies down at my feet with a heavy sigh, giving up on me.
We sit there as the sun sets, me and my judgmental goat, both knowing I’m making excuses.
Both knowing I’m scared. Both knowing that somewhere across town, three cowboys are at a roping competition, probably not even thinking about me because let’s be real, we had some hot nights, not a relationship.
Regardless, I want to be there. Want to watch Jesse compete and mock his form. Want to steal Boone’s nachos and critique the cheese quality. Want to see if Wyatt ever actually smiles.
But wanting and having are different things, and right now, I’ve got a goat who eats garbage and a father who’s banging the town gossip. My plate’s full.
“Tomorrow,” I tell Rita. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
She doesn’t look convinced.
Good. At least one of us has standards.
Tomorrow feels safer than tonight, and right now, safe means not watching Madison drape herself over Jesse while I pretend not to care.
My phone buzzes one more time. A photo from Boone. There’s an empty seat next to them, Rita’s collar on the bench (when did they get that?), and the caption “Saving your spot.”
I turn my phone off. They’ll survive. It’s been two weeks of fooling around, not a marriage. Madison can have her Instagram moments. I’ve got better things to do.
Rita makes one more sound of disgust and goes to sleep at my feet, done with my shit for the night.
“Yeah, well,” I tell her sleeping form. “At least I’m not humping the neighbor’s fence post like you did last week.”
The stars come out, bright and clear, and I sit on my porch reminding myself that this was always going to be temporary. Fun while it lasted. A good story for when I’m old and boring.
The weird tightness in my chest is probably just indigestion from lunch.
I stay on the porch anyway, because going inside means admitting the night’s over, and I’m not ready for that level of commitment to my choices yet.
Besides, someone needs to make sure Rita doesn’t escape and commit more crimes.
Rita snores, and I pretend that’s the only reason I’m still out here, watching stars I’ve seen a thousand times before.