Chapter 15 #2
When I get home, after washing my shirt and hiding the binoculars, Dad’s in the kitchen whistling. Whistling. Hank Thompson, is whistling “Can’t Help Falling in Love” while making coffee.
“Who died and left you money?” I ask, grabbing my own mug.
Busted, he stops mid-whistle. “What?”
“You’re whistling. You don’t whistle. You grumble and grunt and occasionally speak in full sentences, but you don’t whistle. And you definitely don’t whistle love songs.”
“Can’t a man be in a good mood?”
“You? No. You’re constitutionally opposed to good moods. You think they’re gateway emotions to socialism.”
He scowls, which is more familiar. “I’m just... it’s a nice morning.”
“It’s cloudy and humid. Your least favorite weather combination after ‘hot and humid’ and ‘cold and humid.’”
“Maybe I’m evolving.”
“Into what? Someone who experiences joy?”
“Smart-ass,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it.
He takes his coffee and heads for the door, but not before I catch him smiling. Actually smiling, not the grimace he deploys at funerals when he’s trying to seem approachable.
“Where are you going?” I call after him.
“Town. Errands.”
“What errands?”
“The errand kind.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
“Are you going to see Mrs. Delaney?”
He freezes in the doorway. “What makes you think—”
“Dad, I saw you at her house. Your truck was there. At night. And this morning. And probably right now if you ever actually leave.”
He turns around slowly. “How long have you known?”
“Couple weeks. You’re not as subtle as you think. Also, she basically told me anyway.”
“She what?”
“Relax. She was cool about it. For her. Which means only half the town knows instead of all of it.”
He sits back down, looking defeated. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Because I’d find out you’re dating the town gossip who’s spent thirty years documenting our family’s disasters?”
“Something like that.”
“Fine. But that’s not a reason to sneak around.” I pause. “Wait, that’s exactly what I did with the McCoys.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“You were being reckless. I’m being... careful.”
“You’re being happy,” I correct. “Which is weird and uncomfortable for everyone, but probably a good thing.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “She makes me laugh,” he says.
And I feel an ache in my heart. Happiness for him. Grief for myself.
I clear my throat to cover up the lump in it. “Mrs. Delaney makes you laugh. Mrs. ‘Did you hear about the Thompson girl’s latest disaster’ Delaney? Are we talking about the same person?”
“She’s different when we’re alone. She’s... kind. Funny. Smart. She listens. Really listens, doesn’t just wait for gossip material.”
Could have fooled me.
“And the fact that she knows everyone’s secrets?”
“Like you and the McCoy boys? You’re not as subtle as you think either. Also, Boone posted a photo on Instagram where your bra was visible in the background.”
“That idiot—”
“Language.”
“That was my good bra!”
“I don’t want to know about your bras.”
We sit in awkward silence, two Thompsons who’ve been sneaking around with people we shouldn’t be.
“She makes me happy,” he finally says. “For the first time since your mother died, I’m actually happy.”
“Then stop hiding it.”
“Says the girl who broke things off with three men rather than go public.”
“That’s diff… okay, we’re the same. Whatever. We’re chickenshits.”
“We’re Thompsons. We’re not chickenshits. We’re... strategically cautious.”
“That’s fancy talk for chickenshits.”
He’s out the door before I can say more, his truck heading toward “town.” Which is code for Mrs. Delaney’s house.
Rita appears from wherever she hides when she’s digesting things she shouldn’t have eaten. She’s got something in her mouth that looks fabric-based.
“What now?”
She drops it at my feet. It’s one of Dad’s good socks. The dress socks he saves for funerals and now, dates.
“You’re sabotaging his romance? That’s low, even for you.”
Rita trots over to where Dad left his newspaper and grabs the Style section in her teeth. She prances off with it, probably to eat the wedding announcements because she’s got a sick sense of humor.
“Hey! I wasn’t done not reading that!”
She ignores me, disappearing into the backyard with her prize.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Unknown number: Hi, this is Madison! Got your number from the rodeo registration. Wanted you to know Jesse and I are officially back together! Thought you should hear it from me first. Girl code!
I stare at the message for a solid minute, processing the audacity. The lies. The emoji. The “girl code” from someone who wouldn’t recognize girl code if it bit her on her surgically enhanced ass.
I finally respond.
Me: Cool, Maddy. Does Jesse know?
Three dots appear immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Finally:
Madison: It’s complicated. And my name’s not Maddy.
I’ll bet it is. Lying is complicated.
Me. Complicated how? Like he doesn’t know you exist? Or he knows but wishes you didn’t?
Madison: You’re bitter. I get it. But Jesse and I have history.
Me: So do world wars. Doesn’t mean anyone wants a repeat.
Madison: You’re just jealous because he chose me.
Me: He literally dodged your kiss on live television. The horse had to take one for the team.
Three dots for a long time. Then:
Madison: That was edited weird.
Sure, Maddy. The live broadcast was edited. In real-time. By wizards.
I delete the conversation and block the number. I don’t need that kind of shit in my life. I’ve got enough problems without adding Madison’s fantasy relationship to the mix.
The diner’s packed for lunch rush, which means I can’t get my usual booth in the back where I can eat my feelings in private. I’m stuck at the counter between a trucker and the lady from the post office, who keeps trying to see what I’m texting.
“Not texting anyone,” I tell her. “Just checking the weather.”
“The weather? For twenty minutes?” she asks.
“It’s very detailed weather. Barometric pressure. Wind patterns. Chance of emotional stability.”
“That’s not weather.”
“It’s internal weather.”
Mrs. Delaney appears at my elbow because of course she does.
She’s got that glow that comes from either good sex or expensive skincare, and knowing what I do, it’s probably both.
She’s also wearing a bandana that definitely belongs to my father.
I recognize it from the Christmas I gave it to him, thinking he’d become a bandana kind of guy. He never did, at least until now.
“Callie, dear! Where’s your McCoy entourage? I haven’t seen you with them in days.”
The entire diner goes quiet. Everyone’s listening while pretending not to. It’s a Cedar Ridge specialty.
“Rehab,” I say loudly. “For excessive flirting. Very serious condition. Could be terminal.”
There’s nervous laughter, then conversation resumes, but I can feel everyone still paying attention. Peripheral eavesdropping is an art form in these parts.
Mrs. Delaney sits next to me, which is bold considering she’s banging my father. “You know, dear, sometimes what seems impossible is just difficult. And difficult things are often the most worthwhile.”
“Are we talking about me or you?”
She smiles. “Both, perhaps.”
“How’s that working out? The difficult thing?”
“Better than expected. Your father’s actually quite romantic when he’s not being a stubborn ass.”
“Please don’t tell me details. I just ate. I’ll probably eat again. I’d like to keep both meals down.”
“I’m just saying, sometimes taking risks is worth it. Even when the whole town’s watching. Especially then, actually. Gives them something interesting to talk about besides weather and cattle prices.”
“And sometimes risks blow up in your face and become town entertainment that never dies. Like that time the mayor’s wife ran off with the feed store guy. People still talk about that.”
“That was fifteen years ago.”
“Exactly. Fifteen years of being a punchline.”
She’s quiet for a moment, stirring sugar into her coffee with more focus than necessary. “You know what I’ve learned from thirty years of collecting gossip?”
“That people are terrible?”
“That everyone’s miserable when they’re playing it safe. The best stories, the ones people tell with smiles instead of judgment? Those are about people who took chances. Who chose messy happiness over clean misery.”
“That’s poetic.”
“That’s experience. Also, your father told me you were watching the McCoys from the ridge this morning with his hunting binoculars.”
“That man cannot keep a secret.”
“He was concerned. Said you looked... what was the word? Pathetic.”
“That’s my daddy.”
“You had binoculars and were hiding behind a bush.”
“Bird watching is a legitimate hobby.”
“There are no birds on that ridge.”
“I was hopeful.”
She pats my hand and leaves, but not before sliding a piece of paper under my coffee cup. It’s a receipt from the florist. For roses. Red ones. With a note in my father’s handwriting: “For making me remember what happy feels like. -H”
“Gross,” I mutter, but something in my chest tightens seeing my father’s scratchy handwriting forming words about feelings.
I’m about to pay when I spot a flyer for the upcoming festival. Next weekend. The scene of the original crime, where Rita brought our families together through destruction and I made the first of many bad decisions by kissing a McCoy.
Three McCoys.
In various locations.
With varying levels of clothing.
The festival’s a big deal. Everyone goes. There’s no avoiding it unless I want to become a hermit, which is starting to sound appealing. I could live in the hills with Rita, eating berries and avoiding human contact.
“Time to fix this,” I mutter, not sure what “this” is nor how to fix it, but feeling something needs to happen.
“What was that?” the waitress asks.
“Nothing. Just talking to myself. First sign of sanity.”
“I thought that was the first sign of insanity?”
“That too. It’s a fine line. I’m straddling it.”
I pay and head outside, stepping into the afternoon heat that feels oppressive and unnecessary. Like my current emotional state when I return back home.
My phone buzzes.
Jesse: Madison’s lying about us being together.
I type back before I can stop myself.
Me: I know.
Jesse: How?
Me: She texted. Claimed girl code. I asked if you knew about your relationship. She said it’s complicated.
Jesse: It’s not complicated. It’s nonexistent. She’s delusional.
Me: Everyone knows that but her. Poor girl.
Jesse: Ok. Wanted to make sure you knew what was really up.
Me: What do you want me to say, Jesse?
Jesse: That you miss us.
I stare at the screen. Type “I do” then delete it. Type “That wouldn’t change anything” then delete that too. Type “I was watching you with binoculars” and definitely delete that.
Finally I respond.
Me: Doesn’t matter what I miss.
Jesse: It does to us.
Me: Why?
Jesse: Because we’re miserable.
Me: Good.
Jesse: Good?
Me: No. Not good. I don’t know. Stop texting me. I’m trying to move on.
Jesse: Are you though?
Me: Yes. I’ve moved on. So much. I’m practically in another state. Emotionally.
Jesse: You watched us from the ridge.
Me: Fuck, Boone told you?
Jesse: He saw the sun reflecting off the binocular lenses.
Me: Those were for birds.
Jesse: Sure, Callie.
I turn my phone off before I can respond with something like the truth about how much I actually do miss them. Even their stupid faces and their stupid jokes and the stupid way they make me feel things.
The festival is in six days. The whole town will be there. All the McCoys. All the Thompsons. All the gossips and watchers and people placing bets on when the next fight will break out.
Maybe it’s time to give them something to really talk about.
Or maybe it’s time to disappear entirely.
I haven’t decided yet.
Rita’s waiting by my truck, having escaped from the yard again. She’s got something in her mouth that looks expensive.
“What did you steal now?”
She drops it at my feet. It’s a McCoy ranch tag, the kind they put on equipment. Fresh. Recent. Still warm, which means she was just there.
“Where did you get this?”
She bleats innocently, but there’s nothing innocent about Rita. She’s been visiting them. Of course she has. Goats don’t care about feuds or breakups or feelings. They just go where they want and eat what they please and live their best lives without worrying about what people think.
“You’re fraternizing with the enemy?”
She tilts her head as if to say “enemy is a strong word for people you were naked with just last week.”
She stops short of calling me a ho. But I know she’s thinking it.
“They’re not the enemy, Rita. They’re just... off limits,” I say.
Another head tilt.
“Stop judging me. You eat garbage for fun. Your opinion means nothing.”
But I pocket the tag anyway. A little piece of metal with “McCoy Ranch” stamped on it. It shouldn’t mean anything. Shouldn’t make my chest tight. Shouldn’t make me want to drive over there and return it in person.
“C’mon. We have things to do,” I tell Rita. “Productive things. Like laundry. And wallowing. Productive wallowing.”
Rita nods as if to say “we both know you’re going to eat more pie and stare at that ranch tag for an hour.”
She’s not wrong.
Six days until the festival.
Six days to figure out what I want.
Six days to decide if being miserable apart is really better than being together.
The tag feels warm in my pocket. Not radioactive or magical, just warm from Rita’s mouth, which is gross when I think about it. But I don’t take it out. Don’t throw it away. Just get on with my day carrying stolen McCoy property, pretending it’s not a metaphor for something else.