She hands the microphone to her dad, who holds it like it might explode, which given the day’s revelations isn’t impossible. Then she looks at my brothers and me, really looks at us, and makes a decision.
She jumps off the stage.
It’s not graceful. It’s not choreographed. She just launches herself into space, trusting we’ll catch her, which we do because even in a shitshow like this, we’re coordinated when it comes to Callie Thompson.
Jesse catches her first, and he kisses her like the whole town isn’t watching, like we haven’t just destroyed—or restored—both our families’ reputations in under twenty minutes. It’s the kind of kiss that makes married people remember when they weren’t married, makes single people question their choices, and makes teenagers uncomfortable and jealous.
When Jesse finally lets her breathe, Wyatt pulls her to him. His kiss is different, like he’s trying to memorize the moment, to store it somewhere safe for dark times thatmay someday come. Someone in the crowd whistles. Someone else yells, “Get a room!” Someone else responds, “They probably have three rooms!” which gets a mix of laughs and groans.
Then it’s my turn, and instead of kissing her immediately, I lift her up and spin her around because someone needs to bring levity to this situation and also because I’ve always wanted to do that dramatic spin thing from movies. She’s laughing and crying at the same time, and when I finally set her down and kiss her, she tastes like victory and the funnel.
“WE’RE REALLY DOING THIS?” she yells, not realizing the mic is still on and her dad’s holding it close enough to pick up everything, including what sounds like Jesse saying something inappropriate about later.
“WE’RE REALLY DOING THIS!” Jesse yells back.
“ALL FOUR OF US?”
“ALL FOUR OF US!”
“THAT’S MATHEMATICALLY IMPROBABLE!”
“WE’VE ESTABLISHED CEDAR RIDGE IS BAD AT MATH!”
The crowd’s reaction is mixed, with cheering, booing, confused murmuring, and at least one person trying to work out the logistics on their fingers. Someone shouts, “How does that even work?” and someone else responds, “None of your business, Barbara!”
Rita chooses this moment to make her move. She’s been surprisingly patient, but goats have limits, and she reached hers. She breaks free from wherever Callie tied her and bolts onto the stage with the determination of someone who’s ready for some fun.
She goes straight for the mayor’s gavel, which he’s been holding throughout this entire drama. He tries to save it, pulling it away, but Rita’s faster and more motivated. She grabs the gavel in one smooth motion, unaware that it’s historic. In fact, there’s a plaque somewhere that says it’s from 1887, having survived two fires and a tornado. It’s now about to meet its end in a goat’s mouth.
“My gavel!” the mayor protests, reaching for it.
Rita starts eating it in response, making direct eye contact with him while she does it, which is a power move I respect.
“It’s been used to open every town meeting for over a century!”
Rita eats faster, her jaw working with the determination of someone who’s decided history is edible.
Then, because this is already peak craziness, Rita spots Callie’s backup speech cards sticking out of her pocket. The ones she prepared in case the first speech went badly, which technically it hasn’t. It’s just gone sideways, backward, and possibly into another dimension.
Rita abandons the gavel, leaving it half-chewed and definitely no longer suitable for official use, and goes for the cards. She gets them in her teeth and starts chewing with the satisfaction of someone who’s found her purpose.
“My notes!” Callie shouts, trying to grab them back.
Rita dodges, surprisingly agile for a goat.
Rita bleats through a mouthful of index cards, looking pleased with herself. A partially chewed card falls out. I can see the words “reconciliation” and “growth” before Rita hoovers it back up.
“You know what?” Callie says, giving up the chase. “Perfect. This is perfect. We don’t need speeches. We don’t need traditions. We don’t need grudges that were based on lies.”
She turns to the crowd, which is still processing everything that’s happened in the last twenty minutes. “Cedar Ridge, you have a choice,” Callie announces, her voice carrying without the mic. “You can keep living in the past, holding onto grudges that were never real, dividing yourselves over expired mayo and mathematical errors. Or you can accept that things change. People change. Thompsons can love McCoys. The town gossip can date the town grump. And maybe, just maybe, that’s not the end of the world.”
There’s a moment of silence. Complete, total silence, like the town is collectively holding its breath.
Then someone starts clapping.
It’s the judge, already drunk at 2 p.m. Then the church lady joins in, relieved she’s not going to be lynched for the mayo incident. Her applause is tentative at first, then stronger. And bringing up the rear is the vet, still holding his charts, clapping with them, which makes a funny flapping sound.
One by one, people start applauding. Not everyone because there are still holdouts, people who look like they’ve swallowed lemons soaked in vinegar, people who are definitely going to talk about this at church tomorrow in disapproving tones. But most of the town? Most of the town is laughing and cheering and taking pictures that are definitely going to end up on every social media platform with captions like “Love Wins” and “Mayo Can’tStop Us Now” and “Cedar Ridge: Where Math and Condiments Go to Die.”
