But as I drive home, all I can see is Madison’s arm around Jesse’s neck, and the way she was sure to glance at me right before she kissed him like she was marking territory.
Territory I have no claim to.
Two nights later,I follow my father like some kind of bargain-bin private investigator.
He left the house at eight p.m. claiming he had to “check on something at the north pasture.” Yeah right, Dad. He must think I’m blind. The man is dressed nicer than usual and wearing his cologne again, the one they had on special at the general store. The north pasture doesn’t require cologne. The north pasture barely requires pants.
I stay three car lengths behind, lights off, relying on his taillights and the half-moon to navigate. Which is probably illegal. Definitely unethical. But Dad’s been acting stranger than usual and I want to know what’s going on.
He passes the turn for the north pasture without even slowing down.
“Knew it,” I mutter, continuing to follow.
He heads toward town, taking the long way to avoid Main Street. Avoiding witnesses, more like.
Then he turns onto Willow Lane and my heart starts racing because I know who lives on Willow Lane. There’s only one house on this street that matters, one person who could make Hank Thompson act like a teenager with a secret.
He slows down near Mrs. Delaney’s house.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no, no.”
I wasright.
But he’s pulling into her driveway and—wait, he’s backing up. Fast. Too fast. He clips her trash can with a bang that echoes in the quiet night and speeds off like he’s fleeing a crime scene.
Did he see me? He must have seen me. Why else would he panic and run?
Mrs. Delaney’s porch light flicks on. She steps out in a robe that’s decidedly not appropriate for checking on trash cans. It’s silky. And pink. The kind of robe you wear when you’re expecting company, not investigating property damage.
She looks at the knocked-over trash can, then up and down the street. Her eyes land on my truck, parked badly in the shadow of a tree that’s not doing much to hide me.
We stare at each other across the distance. Even in the dim light, I can see her expression shift from confusion to understanding to something that might be… embarrassment?
Dad and Mrs. Delaney, the town gossip. The woman who’s made a career out of everyone else’s business. The person who live-tweeted my cousin’s wedding mess and created a Facebook group dedicated to “Cedar Ridge Drama Watch.”
She’s now walking toward my truck with the determination of someone who’s decided to face the music.
I could drive away. Should drive away. This is none of my business, even if it is my father.
But I stay, rolling down my window as she approaches.
“Callie,” she says, and her voice is different. Softer. Without the usual edge of someone gathering gossip ammunition.
“Mrs. Delaney.”
“I suppose you have questions.”
“Is my father having a midlife crisis or are you two actually...”
“We’re actually.” She pulls her robe tighter. “Have been for a while.”
“A while?” My voice cracks. “My father’s been secretly dating for a while?”
“He wanted to tell you but he was scared. Your father, despite his gruff exterior, is terrified of disappointing you.”
“Disappointing me? By dating? I’ve been trying to get him to date for years!”
She looks down for a second, pulling the sash tighter on her robe. “By datingme. The town gossip. The woman who’s made sport of both your family and the McCoy’s.”
