She ignores me, disappearing into the backyard with her prize.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Unknown number: Hi, this is Madison! Got your number from the rodeo registration. Wanted you to know Jesse and I are officially back together! Thought you should hear it from me first. Girl code!
I stare at the message for a solid minute, processing the audacity. The lies. The emoji. The “girl code” from someone who wouldn’t recognize girl code if it bit her on her surgically enhanced ass.
I finally respond.
Me: Cool, Maddy. Does Jesse know?
Three dots appear immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Finally:
Madison: It’s complicated. And my name’s not Maddy.
I’ll bet it is. Lying is complicated.
Me. Complicated how? Like he doesn’t know you exist? Or he knows but wishes you didn’t?
Madison: You’re bitter. I get it. But Jesse and I have history.
Me: So do world wars. Doesn’t mean anyone wants a repeat.
Madison: You’re just jealous because he chose me.
Me: He literally dodged your kiss on live television. The horse had to take one for the team.
Three dots for a long time. Then:
Madison: That was edited weird.
Sure, Maddy. The live broadcast was edited. In real-time. By wizards.
I delete the conversation and block the number. I don’t need that kind of shit in my life. I’ve got enough problems without adding Madison’s fantasy relationship to the mix.
The diner’spacked for lunch rush, which means I can’t get my usual booth in the back where I can eat my feelings in private. I’m stuck at the counter between a trucker and the lady from the post office, who keeps trying to see what I’m texting.
“Not texting anyone,” I tell her. “Just checking the weather.”
“The weather? For twenty minutes?” she asks.
“It’s very detailed weather. Barometric pressure. Wind patterns. Chance of emotional stability.”
“That’s not weather.”
“It’s internal weather.”
Mrs. Delaney appears at my elbow because of course she does. She’s got that glow that comes from either good sex or expensive skincare, and knowing what I do, it’sprobably both. She’s also wearing a bandana that definitely belongs to my father. I recognize it from the Christmas I gave it to him, thinking he’d become a bandana kind of guy. He never did, at least until now.
“Callie, dear! Where’s your McCoy entourage? I haven’t seen you with them in days.”
The entire diner goes quiet. Everyone’s listening while pretending not to. It’s a Cedar Ridge specialty.
“Rehab,” I say loudly. “For excessive flirting. Very serious condition. Could be terminal.”
There’s nervous laughter, then conversation resumes, but I can feel everyone still paying attention. Peripheral eavesdropping is an art form in these parts.
