I turn to walk away, but Mrs. Delaney intercepts me, her phone still recording. “Callie, sweetie, how do you feel about your family’s ongoing struggle for justice?”
“I feel like I need a drink,” I deadpan. “A strong one. Maybe several.”
She blinks, clearly not expecting that response. “Oh. Well. That’s... honest.”
“It’s my brand,” I say, stepping around her. “Excuse me, I have a goat to find before she eats someone’s car.”
As I walk away, I can still hear Dad and Mr. McCoy hurling insults at each other. Something about beans versus no beans, secret ingredients, and judges who “wouldn’t know good chili if it bit them on the ass.”
The worst part? This happens every year. Every single year, without fail, the Thompson-McCoy feud explodes into public view at some community event, and every single year, I want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
I love my dad, I really do. But sometimes, I think hecares more about a decades-old chili ribbon than he does about looking like a rational human being in public.
The shouting behind me gets louder. I hear someone mention calling the sheriff. Mrs. Delaney is probably livestreaming the whole thing by now.
“Perfect,” I mutter, heading toward the livestock area where I left Rita tied up. “Just perfect. Another year, another public humiliation courtesy of the Thompson family tradition.”
At least Rita can’t judge me for my genetics. She’s a goat. Her standards are refreshingly low.
I should have known betterthan to leave Rita unattended for more than five minutes. By the time I reach the livestock area, Rita’s rope is swinging free from the fence post, and there’s no goat in sight.
Just. My. Luck.
“Rita!” I call out, scanning the area.
A crash echoes from the direction of the food booths, followed by screaming. My stomach drops.
“Oh, no. No, no, no.”
I run toward the sound, dodging families with strollers and teenagers holding deep-fried turkey legs. As I round the corner, the scene unfolds in slow motion. Rita is now barreling directly toward the chili tables at full speed.
“Rita, stop!” I shout, but she’s locked onto her target.
She hits the first table with the force of a missile. Crock-Pots go flying. Chili explodes everywhere ontowalls, people, the ground. It’s like a crime scene, but tomato sauce for the blood and beans for the body parts.
“My chili!” someone screams.
“Five hours of work!” another voice wails.
Rita, completely unbothered by the destruction she’s caused, starts eating chili off the ground. At least she’s not wasteful.
A toddler, covered head to toe in the award-winning three-bean chili, lets out a wail that could shatter glass. His mother stares in horror at what used to be her child and is now a small, crying chili monster.
“I am so sorry!” I yell, sprinting toward the disaster zone. “She’s friendly! She’s just hungry!”
Dad’s voice cuts through the chaos: “WHAT IN THE SAM HILL IS GOING ON?”
I turn to see him marching toward us, his face transitioning from angry-red to stroke-purple. Behind him, the entire McCoy family is following, probably to witness the complete destruction of the Thompson reputation. Or what’s left of it.
“Rita got loose,” I explain breathlessly, diving toward my goat, who has now moved on to sampling someone’s cornbread. “Rita, no! Bad goat!”
She looks at me with those innocent brown eyes, cornbread crumbs on her chin, and bleats. It’s the most unapologetic sound I’ve ever heard.
“Get that animal under control!” The judge from the chili contest, a woman with steel-gray hair and zero patience, points an accusatory finger at me. “She’s contaminated half the entries!”
“I’m trying!” I lunge for Rita’s collar, but she sidesteps me. “Rita, I swear to God, you’re becoming barbecue tonight!”
The threat doesn’t faze her. She’s found someone’s dropped funnel cake and is now going to town on it, as if she earned her dessert.
