Epilogue
Callie
Six Months Later
The Cedar Ridge Fall Festival is in full swing, because this town only knows how to communicate through festivals and gossip. This time, though, the Thompson-McCoy booth isn’t split down the middle with duct tape and mutual hatred.
Yay, us.
“RITA NO!”
Too late. Rita’s already escaped her pen, cleared a four-foot fence, and is making a beeline for the corn dog stand.
“Whose turn was it to watch her?” I shout, already running after Cedar Ridge’s top criminal. Actually, Cedar Ridge’s only criminal.
“Boone’s on duty!” Jesse and Wyatt yell in unison.
“I was teaching children about goat safety!” Boone defends, jogging up beside me.
“By letting them wear foam helmets and practice headbutting?”
Rita’s reached the corn dog stand. The vendor sees her coming and tries to protect his inventory, but Rita’s full of tricks. She feints left, goes right, and snatches three corn dogs in one smooth motion.
“She’s evolving,” Wyatt observes with what sounds like pride.
“She’s a menace,” I correct, finally catching up and grabbing her collar. She looks at me with zero remorse, a corn dog protruding from her mouth like a cigar.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the festival announcer booms over the speakers, “the judges have made their decision for this year’s Special Livestock Award!”
“That’s a new category,” Jesse notes.
“They created it specifically for Rita,” I explain. “After last year’s incident.”
“Which incident?”
“All of them.”
“And the winner is... surprising no one... RITA THE GOAT!”
The crowd cheers. Rita bleats through her corn dog, spraying mustard on my new boots. My expensive new boots.
“Come on, champion,” I say, dragging her toward the stage.
The mayor hands me a giant purple ribbon, keeping a safe distance from Rita. Smart man. She ate his gavel, his chain of office, and his toupee over the past six months.
I pin the ribbon to Rita’s collar, right next to her previous ribbon for “Biggest Personality.”
“Speech!” someone yells from the crowd.
“Rita would like to thank her enablers,” I announce into the microphone. “Especially Boone, who keeps feeding her things she shouldn’t eat, Jesse, who built her a pen she escapes from daily, and Wyatt, who made a spreadsheet of her dietary crimes. She ate that, though.”
Rita bleats, sounding pleased with herself. A piece of corn dog falls out of her mouth and hits the mayor’s shoe.
“She’d also like to announce her candidacy for mayor next year.”
“That’s not how democracy works!” the mayor cries.
“Rita doesn’t recognize your human government,” Boone shouts.
The crowd laughs. Even Madison, who’s here with her new boyfriend, someone from out of town who doesn’t know her history and thinks her obsession with Jesse is “quirky” rather than “restraining order-worthy.”
Back at our booth, the banner reads:
THOMPSON/McCOY CHILI: NO POTATO SALAD ALLOWED
Dad and Mr. McCoy are manning the chili pots, arguing about seasoning but in the way people argue when they don’t actually hate each other but don’t exactly like each other, either.
“Needs more heat,” Mr. McCoy insists.
“It’s already hot enough to strip paint,” Dad counters.
“Your paint’s weak.”
“Your taste buds are dead.”
“From eating your chili for six months.”
They continue bickering while ladling chili for customers, who are taking photos of the historic Thompson-McCoy cooperation. The town’s new tourist attraction.
The judge wobbles up to the booth, already three sheets to the wind at 2 p.m.
“I’ll take a bowl,” he says. “And I promise to count the beans correctly this time.”
“There are no beans,” Dad says flatly. “Because beans in chili is a crime.”
“Amen,” Mr. McCoy agrees, and they fist-bump, which is so weird to see.
Mrs. Delaney appears and grabs Dad’s hand. They’re wearing matching T-shirts that say “PLOT TWIST” with hearts around it. Someone takes a photo. Mrs. Delaney posts it with multiple hashtags.
“The engagement is through the roof!” she announces.
“On the photo?” Dad asks.
“No, our engagement! The wedding planning is going viral!”
“We’re not engaged,” Dad protests.
“Well, that’s true,” Mrs. Delaney says confidently. “But when we are, I have the hashtag: #MayoToMatrimony.”
“That’s terrible,” I tell her.
“It tested well with my Norwegian followers.”
“Why do you have Norwegian followers?”
“They love our drama. Bjorn sent a wedding gift already.”
“But you’re not engaged!”
“Bjorn’s an optimist.”
The afternoon settles into something almost normal, if normal includes a polyamorous group manning a chili booth while a naughty goat holds court.
Wyatt reaches over and tucks a curl behind my ear, his fingers lingering just long enough to make my skin warm. It’s a simple gesture, but from Wyatt, every touch is deliberate, planned, and intentional.
“You’ve got sauce on your face,” he says softly.
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
“That’s not helpful.”
He kisses me instead of answering, which may not clean my face but is certainly welcome. Someone whistles.
Jesse steals a bite from my spoon when I’m not looking, then grins when I catch him.
“That was mine.”
“What’s yours is mine,” he says with a grin.
“That’s not how it works.”
“It is in our spreadsheet.”
“I thought we burned the spreadsheet. Or at least deleted it from Wyatt’s laptop,” I say.
“I’ll never forgive you for that,” Wyatt scowls, but then bursts out laughing.
The guy’s learning. I gotta give him credit.
Boone’s gathered a crowd of kids around Rita, who’s surprisingly tolerant of the attention. Probably because they keep feeding her festival food against my wishes.
“Now, who can tell me the most important rule about goats?” Boone asks his audience.
“Don’t trust them!” a kid shouts.
“Correct! They’re all criminals. Especially this one. She’s wanted in three counties.”
“Really?” a little girl asks, eyes wide.
“No,” I interject. “She’s only wanted in this county. The others haven’t caught her yet.”
Rita bleats, sounding proud. One of the kids offers her a French fry. She accepts it regally, like a queen receiving tribute.
“Can we pet her?” another kid asks.
“Sure, but watch your fingers. And your jewelry.”
The kids giggle, taking turns petting Rita while she tolerates them because she’s expecting more food.
This is our life now. Chili competitions without feuds, family events where both families actually talk, children learning important life lessons about goat crime.
“Never thought I’d see this,” Mr. McCoy says, appearing at my shoulder.
“Which part?”
“All of it. Your dad and me not shooting at each other. You with my boys. That goat wearing a crown.”
I look over. Yup, Rita’s now wearing a flower crown that says “QUEEN” in glitter.
“Weird how it all worked out,” I say.
“Weird how so many years of bad behavior is finally over.”
“And then there’s Rita.”
“Can’t forget the goat.”
“She won’t let us.”
As if summoned, Rita breaks free from her admirers and heads straight for the pie booth.
“Rita no! Those are competition pies!”
That night, back at Jesse’s place, with a reinforced bed that Wyatt specially ordered from a company that makes hotel furniture, we’re sprawled in a satisfied heap.
“We survived another festival,” Jesse says, tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.
“Barely. Rita ate three pies, two hats, and someone’s homework.”
“Who brings homework to a festival?” Boone asks from somewhere near my feet.
“Overachievers. I can relate,” Wyatt answers.
“I guess so,” I say.
“I did bring my laptop to our last date.”
“That wasn’t a date, that was Jesse’s birthday party. But I applaud you for your restraint.”
“Everything’s a date when you’re optimizing relationship time.”
“You can’t optimize everything,” I protest, then gasp as Jesse does something with his tongue that suggests otherwise. “Okay, some things you can optimize.”
“Section twelve of the manual,” Wyatt says against my shoulder.
“There’s no manual,” I insist, but then lose the ability to make much sense.
What happens next is less chaotic than six months ago. I’ve learned the guys’ rhythms and found ways we fit together that shouldn’t work but do.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
“That’s the idea,” Jesse says, then proves it by doing something that makes me forget English entirely.
“She’s speaking in tongues,” Boone observes cheerfully. “I think that was Latin.”
“That was definitely not Latin,” Wyatt corrects, then does something with his fingers that makes me invent new languages entirely.
“Whatever it was, she’s saying it again.”
“Good.”
The bed doesn’t break this time. Wyatt researched its limits before his purchase, but it definitely protests. The headboard hits the wall in a rhythm the livestock probably recognize by now. We’ve become that house. The one the cattle stay away from.
“The animals are gonna complain again,” Jesse pants.
“Let them,” I manage. “Rita will handle them.”
“They’re afraid of Rita.”
“They should be.”
When we finally collapse, the room smells like sex and the vanilla candle that Boone swears all women love.
I am not one of those women.
“So,” Wyatt says, “the festival went well.”
“Rita only committed a couple crimes,” I agree. “That’s below average.”
“And our families managed six hours without violence,” Jesse adds. “That’s above average.”
“Madison behaved,” Boone adds. “She didn’t come after you, Jesse.”
“I think her new guy had her on a leash.”
“Thank God.”
From outside comes the sound of hooves on the roof. Rita must have escaped again.
“How does she do it?” Jesse asks the ceiling.
“She’s Rita,” we all say together.
“Should we get her down?” Boone asks.
“She’ll come down when she’s ready.”
“Or when she’s eaten all the shingles.”
I lie there, surrounded by three men who drove me crazy, drove me away, then drove me right back home. Above us, is a goat who lives for mayhem. Outside, there’s a town that’s still talking about us but now with amusement.
Six months ago, I asked the universe for a little peace.
Instead, I got three cowboys with a manual for optimized intimacy, a goat with political aspirations, a father dating the town blogger, and a happily-ever-after loud enough to wake the whole valley.
You done good, as my mother would have said.
“Hey,” Jesse says suddenly. “We should combine the ranches.”
“Into what?” Boone asks.
“One massive operation. Merge everything.”
“That’s how corporate monopolies start,” I point out. “Next thing you know, we’re evil.”
“We’re already kind of evil,” Wyatt says. “We traumatized Madison and broke the town’s entire social structure.”
“That’s not evil, that’s community service,” Jesse argues.
“We could open a therapy ranch,” Boone suggests. “For people with feud-related trauma.”
“So... everyone in Cedar Ridge?”
“Exactly. Built-in customer base.”
“Wow. Just wow, you guys,” I say.
“You picked us,” Boone reminds me.
“Temporary insanity. Lasted six months so far.”
“And counting,” Jesse adds, pulling me closer.
From the roof, there’s a scraping sound, followed by what’s definitely shingles falling.
“That’s coming out of someone’s paycheck,” Wyatt mutters.
“We don’t have paychecks,” Boone points out.
“Then it’s coming out of someone’s beer money.”
“Not mine,” everyone says simultaneously.
And as sleep finally takes us, my mind wanders to how the best things can come from the worst circumstances. How we’re four people who shouldn’t work but do. How my little town is learning to laugh at itself. How our future is undefined and messy and completely ours to fuck up however we want.
Tomorrow, we’ll deal with the roof damage and whatever scheme the boys cook up next. Tonight, everything’s exactly as silly as it should be.
The End
Or rather, The Beginning of Whatever This Becomes.
But it’s ours to figure out
Chaos be damned.