“All cults have sexual tension. That’s their whole thing, isn’t it?”
“Then maybe we are a cult.”
“The Cult of Questionable Decisions,” I suggest.
“The Church of Why The Fuck Not,” Jesse counters.
“The Temple of Rita’s Chaos,” Boone adds.
We look at the goat, who’s now wearing a curtain like a cape, having chewed a head hole in it. She’s also stuck her head in Wyatt’s toolbox.
“Hey!” Wyatt yelps.
Rita sees him coming and takes off, curtain cape flowing behind her.
“Should we head to the fence thing?”
“Before my dad comes back with guns?”
“All of them?”
“Probably. He’s an overachiever when it comes to threats.”
We pile into their truck. Rita’s still wearing my curtain.
This is our life now. And honestly?
Way better than sneaking around pretending we didn’t care.
Two hours later,both families are at the property line where the fence has been broken for fifteen years. Nobody’s fixed it because that would mean admitting the other side existed. Now, we’re all here pretending this is normal, which it is not.
The scene looks like a hostage negotiation where everyone brought potato salad. McCoys on one side, Thompsons on the other, and the fence posts lying there like evidence at a crime scene. Mrs. Delaney’s set up a whole production that includes folding tables with lemonade nobody asked for, cookies that look store-bought but she’ll claim are homemade, and her phone on a tripod because everything she does needs to be documented for posterity.
“This is weird,” I mutter to Jesse.
“Everything’s weird now. We’re living in the upside-down.”
Mr. McCoy and my dad are standing together, both gripping beers like emotional support animals. They’re having what passes for conversation—mostly grunts and weather observations.
“Hot today.”
“Yep,” Dad responds.
Revolutionary.
“Twenty bucks says someone bleeds,” Boone whispers.
“That’s not a bet, that’s a guarantee,” Wyatt counters, gesturing toward a first aid kit.
“Holy shit, did you rob a hospital?”
“I know my family. And yours. This is actually my backup kit.”
Mrs. Delaney swoops in with her lemonade tray, wearing her bedazzled “Feuding is Futile” shirt. “Isn’t this wonderful? The engagement metrics are through the roof! Someone says we should have our own show.”
“Please no,” I beg.
“Too late! I already pitched it to two networks!”
