Chapter 19 #2
“The boys are outside,” he says without looking up.
“All three? But I just left them a little while ago.”
“I can’t explain young love, Callie.”
“Why don’t they come in?”
“Because they’re nervous and men do stupid shit when they’re nervous. I alphabetized my socks before proposing to your mother.”
“That’s weird.”
“That’s love. Or anxiety. Same thing really.”
I look out the window. Yeah, there they are, doing exactly what Dad described. Jesse’s mouth is moving, practicing whatever bullshit he thinks this moment requires. Boone’s got cheese dust on his shirt, and Wyatt’s messing around in the tool box in the back of their truck.
“How long have they been out there?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“None of them knocked?”
“They tried. Jesse’s hand got within six inches of the door before he chickened out. Twice. Boone touched the doorknob then pretended he was checking for splinters.”
“Jesus.”
“Your boyfriends, not mine.”
“You’re dating Mrs. Delaney. She live-tweeted your colonoscopy.”
“That was a medical procedure.”
“She called it ‘Hank’s Intestinal Journey: A Love Story.’ She used the poop emoji.”
“We need to deal with the boys,” he says firmly.
“We?”
“I’m your father. I’m supposed to terrify them. It’s traditional. Plus, I’ve been practicing my threatening face in the mirror.”
“Not sure you needed practice, Dad.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We walk outside. The McCoys straighten up fast enough to cause whiplash. Boone stops mid-chew, and a piece of Dorito falls from his mouth in slow motion.
Dad crosses his arms and delivers the stare that used to make me confess to shit I didn’t even do.
“You think you’re good enough for my daughter?”
“No,” Wyatt says immediately, with the certainty of someone who’s run the numbers.
“Definitely not,” Jesse adds, his prepared speech forgotten.
“We’re… a mess, some might say,” Boone contributes, licking orange dust off his fingers.
“Good. The second you think you’re good enough, you stop trying.” Dad looks at each of them. “You treat her right. That’s not a request. That’s not a suggestion. That’s the price of keeping your teeth.”
“Already do,” Wyatt says.
“Every day,” Jesse adds, finding his voice.
“Constantly,” Boone says. “Like, possibly too much.”
Dad makes a sound that might be amusement or might be his soul trying to escape. “I don’t want details. About anything. Ever. As far as I’m concerned, you all just... hold hands and talk about the weather.”
“So much weather,” Boone agrees. “Atmospheric pressure. Cloud formations. The whole meteorological deal.”
“Stop helping,” Jesse mutters.
“Also,” Dad continues, ignoring them, “there are rules.”
“Dad—”
“Not those rules. Basic human decency rules. You don’t get to blame each other when shit goes wrong. You don’t get to make her choose between you. And you sure as hell don’t get to turn this into some competitive sport where she’s the prize.”
The boys are quiet. This is the most my dad’s talked since Mom’s funeral.
“She’s all I’ve got left,” Dad says, his voice rougher. “Her and my ranch and a girlfriend who documents my medical procedures. But mostly her.”
“Yes, sir,” they say in unison, which is either practiced or creepy.
“Good. Now, practical matters. You’re helping fix the fence today.”
“The fence that’s been broken for fifteen years?” Jesse asks.
“That exact fence. Both families. Together. With tools. And supervision.”
“Is that safe?” Wyatt asks. “Statistically speaking, our families plus tools equals emergency room visits.”
“Mrs. Delaney will be there with her phone. She’s calling it ‘content.’ We’re all content now. I don’t know what that means but she says it’s good for engagement. I don’t know what engagement is, either.”
“Nobody asked to be content,” Boone protests.
“Too late. You’re dating a Thompson publicly. You’re already hashtagged, whatever that is. You’re probably trending.”
“Dad, do you know what trending means?”
“No. No, I do not.”
Dad starts walking to his truck, then turns back.
“Boys?”
They tense again.
“You hurt her, I’ve got a gun named Peacemaker.”
“Ironic name for a gun,” Boone points out, because his survival instincts are broken.
“That’s the point. Makes people think about their choices. I’ve also got one named Relationship Counselor. And one called Your Funeral.”
“That’s not subtle.”
“Subtlety’s for people who can’t shoot straight.”
“How many guns do you have?” Boone asks.
“Enough.”
“That’s not a number.”
“It’s all the number you need, young man.”
He gets in his truck, then rolls down the window. “Oh, and, boys? My mother was married five times. Outlived them all. Natural causes, supposedly. The investigations were inconclusive but the insurance companies paid out, so.” He shrugs. “Just something to think about. Genetics and all.”
He drives off, leaving me with three traumatized McCoys.
“Your dad is badass,” Jesse says.
“I know, right?” I say.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I agree.”
Wyatt steps forward, deciding to be the adult. “You good with this? All of it?”
“Define ‘good.’”
“Not running. Not regretting. Not deciding this was whiskey logic that doesn’t work in daylight.”
“It absolutely was whiskey logic.”
Jesse grins. “So we’re doing this? All four of us? In public? At a fence-mending party where someone will probably get tetanus?”
“Yup. Mrs. Delaney made T-shirts. They say ‘Feuding is Futile.’ She’s very proud of them.”
“Oh lord.”
“That’s Mrs. Delaney.”
Boone pulls out his phone. “Holy shit, we’re viral. Someone wrote a fanfiction about us.”
“Already?”
“The internet’s fast and horny. Someone wrote a whole thing about Wyatt’s hands.”
Wyatt looks at his hands suspiciously.
“Apparently they’re ‘rough yet gentle, like sandpaper made of boyfriend material.’”
“That makes no sense,” Wyatt says.
“Nothing about this makes sense,” I point out. “I’m ending a three-decade feud over expired mayo to date three brothers while my dad bones the town blogger who ranked his colonoscopy seven out of ten stars. Common sense is dead and we killed it.”
“Fair point.”
“There’s also a conspiracy theory that we’re a cult,” Boone continues scrolling.
“Are we?” Jesse asks.
“Do cults have this much sexual tension?”
“All cults have sexual tension. That’s their whole thing, isn’t it?”
“Then maybe we are a cult.”
“The Cult of Questionable Decisions,” I suggest.
“The Church of Why The Fuck Not,” Jesse counters.
“The Temple of Rita’s Chaos,” Boone adds.
We look at the goat, who’s now wearing a curtain like a cape, having chewed a head hole in it. She’s also stuck her head in Wyatt’s toolbox.
“Hey!” Wyatt yelps.
Rita sees him coming and takes off, curtain cape flowing behind her.
“Should we head to the fence thing?”
“Before my dad comes back with guns?”
“All of them?”
“Probably. He’s an overachiever when it comes to threats.”
We pile into their truck. Rita’s still wearing my curtain.
This is our life now. And honestly?
Way better than sneaking around pretending we didn’t care.
Two hours later, both families are at the property line where the fence has been broken for fifteen years. Nobody’s fixed it because that would mean admitting the other side existed. Now, we’re all here pretending this is normal, which it is not.
The scene looks like a hostage negotiation where everyone brought potato salad.
McCoys on one side, Thompsons on the other, and the fence posts lying there like evidence at a crime scene.
Mrs. Delaney’s set up a whole production that includes folding tables with lemonade nobody asked for, cookies that look store-bought but she’ll claim are homemade, and her phone on a tripod because everything she does needs to be documented for posterity.
“This is weird,” I mutter to Jesse.
“Everything’s weird now. We’re living in the upside-down.”
Mr. McCoy and my dad are standing together, both gripping beers like emotional support animals. They’re having what passes for conversation—mostly grunts and weather observations.
“Hot today.”
“Yep,” Dad responds.
Revolutionary.
“Twenty bucks says someone bleeds,” Boone whispers.
“That’s not a bet, that’s a guarantee,” Wyatt counters, gesturing toward a first aid kit.
“Holy shit, did you rob a hospital?”
“I know my family. And yours. This is actually my backup kit.”
Mrs. Delaney swoops in with her lemonade tray, wearing her bedazzled “Feuding is Futile” shirt. “Isn’t this wonderful? The engagement metrics are through the roof! Someone says we should have our own show.”
“Please no,” I beg.
“Too late! I already pitched it to two networks!”
The actual fence work begins and it immediately goes south. Mr. McCoy insists the posts need to lean north for “wind resistance.” Dad insists south for “water drainage.”
“Just put it straight up,” I say.
“That’s not how fences work,” Mr. McCoy insists.
“Everything needs an angle,” Dad adds.
“You’re both wrong and this is why we can’t have nice things.”
They stare at me, then each other, then somehow conclude I’m the problem and bond over it.
“Your daughter’s mouthy,” Mr. McCoy tells Dad.
“Your boys taught her that,” Dad responds.
“We’ve only been together for a few weeks,” Jesse points out.
“A few weeks too long,” both fathers say in unison, then look disturbed by their synchronization.
Jesse attempts hammering, and gets his thumb instead of the nail. “FUCK!”
Mrs. Delaney clicks her tongue and stops recording.
“Sorry,” Jesse says, shaking his thumb like that’ll help.
Wyatt wordlessly hands him an ice pack from a cooler.
“You have a cooler with ice packs?”
“I have three. This is just today’s. I also have one for when you cook.”
“When have I cooked?”
“Remember the grilled cheese incident?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You set water on fire. Water. The thing that puts out fires.”
Meanwhile, Rita’s discovered the hammer. She’s got it in her mouth and has decided it’s hers now.
“That’s an eighty-dollar hammer!”
Rita runs faster, the hammer making her look like she’s smoking a giant cigar.
“She’s heading for the road,” someone shouts.
Right on cue, Madison’s BMW appears, slowing down to observe. She’s wearing sunglasses and what appears to be a wedding dress.
“Why is she wearing a wedding dress?” Boone asks.
“She posted that she’s in mourning for Jesse’s freedom,” I explain. “The dress represents the wedding that’ll never happen.”
“So sad.”
“That’s Madison.”
Rita sees the BMW and decides violence is the answer. She charges. Madison screams, floors it, and fishtails onto the shoulder before speeding away.
“Rita’s undefeated,” Boone announces proudly.
“We’re not keeping score,” I say.
“Rita is. She’s got that victory swagger.”
“Your goat’s really something,” Mr. McCoy observes.
“She’s not my, well actually, yeah, she’s basically mine now,” Dad admits. “I think Callie might be sick of her.”
"Well," I say, surveying the fence, "it's definitely... something."
"It's a lawsuit waiting to happen," Wyatt corrects, poking a board that creaks.
"Gives it character," Jesse insists, kissing my cheek in full view of everyone, which makes Dad's eye twitch.
"It's going to impale someone," Boone adds cheerfully. "I give it three days before Rita gets tangled in it."
"Three days? You're optimistic." I watch as another board drops. "I give it three hours."
Both our fathers are standing there with their emotional support beers, looking at us like we're a National Geographic documentary about some rare and quirky species.
"Still want to disown us?" Jesse asks his dad.
"Considering it," Mr. McCoy replies.
"Same," my dad adds, then they clink beers in solidarity.
Mrs. Delaney's livestreaming while crying. "This content is gold! The engagement! The drama! The goat!”
"So we're really doing this?" Dad asks, gesturing vaguely at the four of us. "This whole... shebang?"
"Yep," I confirm.
"And you with all three of them?"
"Package deal. Like Costco, but with more abs."
Dad looks physically pained. Mr. McCoy pats his shoulder. "Could be worse."
"How?"
"Could be four of them."
"Don't give the universe ideas," Dad mutters.
Jesse pulls me closer. "Ready for the long haul of weird looks and gossip?"
"I was born ready. I own a goat who commits felonies."
"Fair point."
"Think it'll still be standing tomorrow?" Jesse asks, nodding at the fence.
"Not a chance," I say. "Want to take bets on what takes it down first?"
"Does it matter?" Wyatt asks, pulling me closer. "We'll just build it again."
"And it'll fall again," I point out.
"And we'll build it again," Boone says, grinning.
I look at the three of them—stubborn, impossible, mine—and realize they’re all right. We'll keep building and rebuilding, not because we have to, but because we choose to.
"Forever's going to be exhausting with you three."
"You love it," Jesse says.
He's not wrong.