“I’m not being dramatic. I’m being morose. There’s a difference.”
She responds by headbutting the remote control, changing the channel from my cooking show to a local channel covering a rodeo. Jesse’s competing, of course. Irecognize his form immediately— the way he holds his shoulders, the tilt of his hat, the way he sits on a horse with that specific McCoy confidence that’s sixty percent skill and forty percent showing off.
“Thanks,” I tell Rita, but I don’t change the channel.
Jesse’s grinning at the camera after roping a calf in what looks to be record time, and for a second, I forget I’m not supposed to care. The announcer’s saying something about “exceptional form” and “the McCoy legacy continues,” which makes me want to throw something at the TV. Then Madison appears, throwing her arms around his neck, showing off an outfit that reeks suggestion and desperation.
The camera catches Jesse’s expression—surprise shifting to annoyance as he tries to extract himself without causing a scene. But Madison’s already posing, aware of the cameras, turning what should be his moment into her photo op.
I change the channel to home renovation, which feels appropriate since my life needs a complete gut job.
“We made the right choice,” I tell Rita, who’s now trying to eat the pie tin itself. “It was getting too messy. Too public. Too... much. Know what I mean?”
But I don’t think she does. She just fixes me with eyes that make her look possessed or omniscient, depending on the lighting.
“Whatever,” I say. “I don’t need your shit. I’m fine. Pie for dinner and dirty PJs are self-care.”
My phone buzzes.
Jesse: You watching?
I don’t respond. I do take another bite of pie though, because calories don’t count when you’re having an emotional crisis. That’s science. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Another buzz.
Boone: Madison tried to kiss him on TV. He dodged. She kissed his horse instead. Horse was not pleased. Bit her hair. We’re probably getting sued.
I almost smile. Almost. But smiling means I care, and I’m definitely not caring from my couch in my deteriorating pajamas with my emotional support goat and pie.
A third buzz.
Boone: The horse is now trending on Twitter. #HorseChoosesViolence
Okay, that one makes me laugh. Just a little. A snort, really.
“We should do something productive,” I announce to Rita.
She’s asleep, snoring in that way goats do that sounds concerning but is normal according to three different vets who’ve all assured me Rita’s just “special.”
“Fine. I’ll be productive alone.”
I don’t move. Productivity is overrated anyway. So is showering. So is pretending I don’t miss those three hot cowboys with an ache I feel in my bones. And other places.
The pie’s gone. I don’t remember finishing it, but theevidence is clear. The tin is empty except for some crust crumbs that Rita’s licking up.
“That was a whole pie,” I tell my stomach. “A whole pie for one person. Gross. I am gross. I smell gross. My life is gross.”
My stomach rumbles, not happy with the sugar assault.
Tomorrow, I’ll get my shit together. Tomorrow, I’ll shower and wear real clothes and stop checking my phone every thirty seconds for texts from people I’m definitely not thinking about.
Tonight, I’m wallowing. And that’s okay.
I turn back to the local station because I am weak and have to know what’s going on in town. I land on a commercial for the next local festival. “Fun for the whole family!” the announcer promises, while footage shows the last gathering including, of course, a prominent shot of the chili competition disaster that started all this.
“Fuck,” I tell the universe.
Rita wakes up, bleats once in what sounds like agreement, and goes back to sleep.
