We push through the crowd, which parts like the Red Sea. People literally jump out of our way. Someone drops what I’m pretty sure is their fourth funnel cake of the day. The diabetes rate in Cedar Ridge is about to spike from stress eating.
“What are you boys doing?” our father demands, trying to block our path. He’s using his broad shoulders, the ones that usually intimidate cattle, but we’re not cattle.
“Something we should have done weeks ago,” Jesse says, stepping around him with the grace of someone who’s been dodging his father’s disappointment for years.
“You disgrace this family!”
“The family disgraced itself thirty years ago,” Wyatt says calmly. “We’re just redeeming it. Getting our family name out of the mud.”
“If you take another step toward that stage?—”
“You’ll what?” I ask. “Disown us? Ground us? We’re grown men, Dad. You can’t send us to our rooms for falling in love.”
Oh my god.
“LOVE?” He says it like it’s a curse word. “With aThompson?”
“With Callie,” Jesse corrects. “Her last name doesn’t define her any more than ours defines us.”
We reach the stage. Callie’s looking down at us with an expression I can’t quite read. Hope mixed with terror mixed with nausea and stress. The crowd has formed a circle around us, phones out, recording everything. We’re going to be on every social media platform by dinner.
“We’ve been idiots,” Jesse announces to the crowd, because apparently, we’re all making speeches today. His voice is clear and confident, the voice of someone who’s made a decision and won’t be swayed.
“The good kind of idiots,” I add, because someone needs to maintain our brand and also because humor is my coping mechanism.
“We choose her,” Wyatt says simply, and somehow that’s the one that makes the crowd really gasp.
“All three of you?” someone shouts from the back.
“All three of us,” Jesse confirms. “You got a problem with that?”
“I mean... logistically...” someone else starts.
“Nobody asked about logistics!” I shout. “We’re declaring our love, not filing a tax return! The logistics are our business!”
Callie laughs into the microphone, and the sound echoes across the fairgrounds. It’s not a nervous laugh or a polite laugh. It’s a real laugh, the kind that says “fuck it, we’re doing this.”
“These three idiots are mine,” she says. “And I’m theirs. And if anyone has a problem with that, you can take it up with Rita.”
Rita, losing her bow, spots the mayor’s sandwich and is making moves toward it.
The crowd’snow divided into clear camps. There’s cheering from the younger folks, the ones who’ve been waiting for something, anything, interesting to happen in Cedar Ridge since the traveling circus incident we don’t talk about. There’s booing from the traditionalists, the ones who think change is a four-letter word and progress is what happens to other towns. And there’s confused murmuring from the middle-aged folks who can’t decide if they’re scandalized or entertained.
“This is disgusting!” Madison shouts from somewhere in the crowd. She pushes her way forward, and her hair is doing that thing where it’s so perfect, it looks like she just stepped out of a salon, which she probably did. “Jesse’s mine!”
“Madison, you photoshopped your face onto a picture of his mother.” Callie shoots back into the mic. “That’s weird. Maybe illegal. Definitely grounds for a restraining order.”
“It was artistic expression.”
“Okay, Maddy.”
The crowd “ooohs” like this is a rap battle. Someone actually starts beatboxing but their friend smacks them.
“You can’t be with all three of them!” Madison continues, now at the foot of the stage, looking up with the righteous indignation of someone who’s never been told no. “It’s not natural!”
“Neither is your nose job but we don’t mention that!” Callie responds. “Or your hair extensions! Or that thing you do with your?—”
“OKAY,” the mayor interrupts, finally recovering from his shock. “Let’s keep this civil!”
