“Someone started a TikTok challenge. People arecompeting to find all twelve plaques. The winner gets...” She scrolls. “Oh. Oh no. Nope. They’ve lost their minds.”
“What?”
“Caleb's offering the winner a 'private heritage experience.'”
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know. Probably going to haul up an Ouija board and try to get a one more rise out old Jedediah, and see if they spawn baby #8.” She pockets her phone. “But hey, the bar's full. The restaurant has a two-hour wait. People are booking rooms for next weekend.”
“Is that guy seriously flexing at a memorial plaque?” I point toward the stone commemorating my grandfather's service in World War II, where a man in a tank top is currently doing bicep curls.
“He's already posted it. The caption is 'honoring the GUNS of our ancestors.'”
I take another pull from the whiskey bottle.
“Sierra, please stop taking photos.”
Click.
“SIERRA.”
Click.
“THAT'S NOT FOR THE HISTORICAL RECORD.”
Click. Click. Click.
“Oh, it absolutely is.”
Her smile is the sweetest, sexiest, most terrifying thing I've ever seen.
“Every. Single.Second.”
“I thought you were mad about your brothers taking over?”
She shrugs and smiles, but there’s a pinch to her expression that tells me my question stings.
I know that pinch.
It's the same expression she wore when her brothers used to talk over her at dinner. When someone would compliment her photos and then ask who took them, assuming it couldn't be the pretty girl holding the camera. When the world reminded her that being taken seriously would always be an uphill climb.
She dug deep to put together that heritage walk. Picking through the histories, selecting the exact right artifacts, elegantly rustic signage, and a narrative arc that honored a hundred years of history.
And now she's watching shirtless men flex at my family's legacy while the internet loses its collective mind.
The camera's not just armor tonight. It's a life raft. The only thing keeping her from drowning in the same absurdity that's slowly killing me.
“The more content you give me, the less angry I get.”
“Yo, Everett?” Caleb calls out when he rounds the corner. “Time to pose with the guests.”
“No.”
“Come on, it’ll just take a few minutes. Or I can grab Uncle Seth. There are quite a few women?—”
Uncle Seth who, knowingmy fucking luck, would decide his late fifties is the perfect time to start giving old Jedediah’s fertility rep a run for it’s money.
“I’ve got it goddamnit.”
