Simple. Direct. No pressure. Just an invitation to something normal, something public, something that doesn’t involve sneaking around or pretending we don’t know each other.
Without hesitation, I text back.
Me: Busy.
I’m not busy. Not by a longshot. Unless you call “busy” sitting on my porch with Rita staring at nothing, accomplishing nothing, being nothing. Feeling sorry for ourselves.
They don’t need to know that.
My phone buzzes again. Jesse’s sent a photo from the competition. He’s on a horse, rope in hand, looking focused and competent and damn hot. The crowd’s visible in the background, and is that Madison? It looks like Madison. Sitting in the front row.
Well, fuck me.
I scroll back to the photos from last night, scattered all over social media. Madison posting with Jesse. Madeline kissing Jesse. Her captions are gross, too:#Some things are meant to be#SecondChances #FirstLove
The comments are worse: “You two were always perfect together!” “Finally! I’ve been waiting for this!” “Poor Callie Thompson... but she was never right for him anyway.”
That last one stings more than it should.
Rita makes a sound that’s part bleat, part question.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
She headbutts my knee, which is either sympathy or an attempt to knock my phone out of my hand.
Another text comes in.
Boone: Madison’s here being annoying. Jesse told her it’s not gonna happen. Twice. Very satisfying.
Then another…
Boone: He keeps looking at the parking lot. Looking for you.
I turn my phone face down and lean back in my chair. The evening’s warm with the crickets starting their nightly symphony. So peaceful. It’s all exactly what I said I wanted… space to think, time to figure my shit out.
Like that’s gonna happen.
Then why does it feel like I’m missing something? Something important?
“Too many cowboys, too much drama,” I tell Rita. “I don’t need it.”
Rita bleats, and it sounds distinctly like disagreement.
“What do you know? You’re a goat.”
She bleats again, longer this time, and fixes me with those weird rectangular pupils that make her look like she knows something.
“I’m protecting myself,” I explain. “From getting hurt. From disappointment. From becoming the town scandal.”
Rita stands up, walks to the porch steps, and looks back at me expectantly.
“I’m not going to the roping competition.”
She bleats again, insistent.
“Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, Madison’s there. She’s already staking her claim, making it clear Jesse’s hers.”
Rita walks back, grabs my shirt in her teeth, and pulls.
