Mrs. Delaney sits next to me, which is bold considering she’s banging my father. “You know, dear, sometimes what seems impossible is just difficult. And difficult things are often the most worthwhile.”
“Are we talking about me or you?”
She smiles. “Both, perhaps.”
“How’s that working out? The difficult thing?”
“Better than expected. Your father’s actually quite romantic when he’s not being a stubborn ass.”
“Please don’t tell me details. I just ate. I’ll probably eat again. I’d like to keep both meals down.”
“I’m just saying, sometimes taking risks is worth it. Even when the whole town’s watching. Especially then, actually. Gives them something interesting to talk about besides weather and cattle prices.”
“And sometimes risks blow up in your face and become town entertainment that never dies. Like thattime the mayor’s wife ran off with the feed store guy. People still talk about that.”
“That was fifteen years ago.”
“Exactly. Fifteen years of being a punchline.”
She’s quiet for a moment, stirring sugar into her coffee with more focus than necessary. “You know what I’ve learned from thirty years of collecting gossip?”
“That people are terrible?”
“That everyone’s miserable when they’re playing it safe. The best stories, the ones people tell with smiles instead of judgment? Those are about people who took chances. Who chose messy happiness over clean misery.”
“That’s poetic.”
“That’s experience. Also, your father told me you were watching the McCoys from the ridge this morning with his hunting binoculars.”
“That man cannot keep a secret.”
“He was concerned. Said you looked... what was the word? Pathetic.”
“That’s my daddy.”
“You had binoculars and were hiding behind a bush.”
“Bird watching is a legitimate hobby.”
“There are no birds on that ridge.”
“I was hopeful.”
She pats my hand and leaves, but not before sliding a piece of paper under my coffee cup. It’s a receipt from the florist. For roses. Red ones. With a note in my father’s handwriting: “For making me remember what happy feels like. -H”
“Gross,” I mutter, but something in my chest tightensseeing my father’s scratchy handwriting forming words about feelings.
I’m about to pay when I spot a flyer for the upcoming festival. Next weekend. The scene of the original crime, where Rita brought our families together through destruction and I made the first of many bad decisions by kissing a McCoy.
Three McCoys.
In various locations.
With varying levels of clothing.
The festival’s a big deal. Everyone goes. There’s no avoiding it unless I want to become a hermit, which is starting to sound appealing. I could live in the hills with Rita, eating berries and avoiding human contact.
“Time to fix this,” I mutter, not sure what “this” is nor how to fix it, but feeling something needs to happen.
