We drink to that truth, because it’s easier than admitting we had a chance at something and fumbled it.
“What do we do now?” Boone asks.
“Move on,” I say. “Find nice girls who are not named Thompson and do not have fathers called Hank.”
“Right,” Jesse says, not sounding convinced.
“Yeah,” Boone adds, sounding less convinced.
The stars come out later, bright and clear and indifferent to three cowboys drinking whiskey and nursing wounded pride.
Somewhere across town, Callie’s probably having dinner with her father, acting unbothered. Playing the part of the dutiful daughter who didn’t spend three weeks getting thoroughly fucked by McCoy boys in various locations.
“We still have her goat’s collar,” Boone mentions randomly.
“We’ll mail it back.”
“That’s passive aggressive.”
“It’s practical.”
“It’s depressing.”
We drink more. The whiskey burns less with each swallow, or maybe everything’s just numb now.
“She was right though,” I finally say. “We never really talked. Never built anything real.”
“We built something,” Jesse argues.
“We built an elaborate booty call arrangement,” I correct. “That’s not the same as a relationship.”
“It could have been.”
“Could have, would have, should have,” Boone mutters. “The Thompson-McCoy story in six words.”
We sit in silence after that, three brothers who learned the hard way that great sex doesn’t overcome bad blood, that chemistry doesn’t equal compatibility, and that sometimes the smart choice and the right choice are the same thing, even when they don’t feel that way.
Rita’s collar sits on the porch rail where Boone left it. Tomorrow we’ll mail it back. Or drop it off. Or keep it as a reminder that for a few weeks.
But tomorrow we’ll get up, run the ranch, and pretend we’re not checking our phones for texts that won’t come. We’ll move on because that’s what you do when someone makes it clear you’re not worth the trouble.
Even if they’re wrong.
Even if we’re wrong.
Even if being wrong separately feels worse than being wrong together.
The bottle’s empty. The night’s dark. And somewhere, Callie Thompson’s getting on with her life without us.
15
Callie
Daythree without McCoy contact and I’m eating stale apple pie straight from the pan while wearing pajamas that haven’t been washed in a week. This is rock bottom, or at least rock bottom adjacent. Rita’s sprawled on the couch next to me, occasionally trying to steal bites of pie, which I defend with my fork because boundaries matter, even in depression.
“This is Mom’s recipe,” I tell Rita through a mouthful. “The one I gave Jesse. Figured I should make it once before I forget what their faces look like.”
Rita bleats, unimpressed with my dramatics.
