“From people who will break your heart to get back at me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know McCoys. They’re charming when they want something, and ruthless when they get it.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life isn’t fair, Callie. Your mother’s death taught you that.”
Before I can respond to that emotional grenade, Rita decides to make her entrance.
She bursts through the back door, which I forgot to close, and leaps onto the kitchen table.
“Rita, no!” I lunge for her, but it’s too late.
She lands squarely in the middle of the table, sending the newspaper clipping flying and knocking over my orange juice glass. The juice spreads across the table in a sticky orange river, soaking through the ancient evidence of McCoy treachery.
“My proof!” Dad shouts, trying to save the newspaper clipping.
“Rita, get down!” I grab for her collar, but she’s having too much fun. She kicks the salt and pepper shakers onto the floor, where they shatter with a crash that sounds like a small explosion.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Dad yells over the chaos. “No control! No discipline! No respect!”
“She’s a goat, not a marine!”
Rita bleats triumphantly and jumps down from the table, but she’s not done yet. She grabs Dad’s property map in her teeth and starts shaking it like a dog with a chew toy.
“Not the map!” Dad dives for the paper, but Rita’s faster. She bolts for the door with her prize, leaving a trail of orange juice hoof prints across the kitchen floor.
“Rita!” I chase after her, but she’s already outside, prancing around the yard with Dad’s carefully annotated map swinging from her mouth like a victory flag.
By the time I catch her and wrestle the map away, it’s torn into pieces and covered in goat slobber.
I walk back into the kitchen to find Dad standing in the wreckage, his hands on his hips and his face that alarming shade of purple. Again.
“I’ll clean this up,” I say quietly, holding out the pieces of his map.
“Don’t bother.” Dad’s voice is cold now, which is somehow worse than the yelling. “Just... stay away from the McCoys, Callie. I mean it. Nothing good can come from getting involved with those people.”
“Dad—”
“Nothing good,” he repeats, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me standing in the wreckage.
I look down at the ruined newspaper clipping, the words bleeding together in orange juice stains, and I can’t help but think that maybe it’s time for some things to be washed away.
Later that night,I’m lying in bed staring at my phone, trying to decide if I’m brave or just stupid.
Dad’s words echo in my head: “Stay away from the McCoys.” But his words are competing with the memory of the night I had with them under the stars, the way it felt to be surrounded by all three, wanted by all three.
It was heady. Delicious. And I want to do it again. I shouldn’t. But I do.
The smart thing would be to listen to Dad. To stay home, keep my head down, and pretend the last few weeks never happened. The smart thing would be to focus on the fundraiser, get through Founders’ Day, and then go back to my quiet, predictable life.
The problem is, I’ve never been particularly smart when it comes to things like that.
I roll over and grab my phone from the nightstand. It’s 11:47 p.m. Way too late to be texting anyone, especially three guys who probably think I’m more trouble than I’m worth after this morning’s disaster.
But my fingers are already typing before my brain can stop me.
