“Of course we’re losing. The average age of that Facebook group is deceased.”
My phone buzzes with a text.
Callie: Have you seen what Mrs. Delaney posted? Guess I’m Cedar Ridge’s Scarlet Woman now. Thinking about getting business cards made.
Jesse reads over my shoulder and laughs. “At least she’s taking it well.”
Callie: Current status: Hiding in my truck in the diner parking lot because I can see at least six people in there showing each other their phones and looking scandalized. The horror. The drama. The extremely slow internet speed.
Me: Does Rita know?
Callie. Rita doesn’t know how to read. Fortunately.
“Tell her to come here,” Boone suggests.
“Not sure ’bout that,” I say, already typing the invitation.
Callie: Be there in 10. If I’m not, assume Mrs. Delaney has formed a mob and they’re chasing me with pitchforks and ugly Facebook comments.
We continue scrolling. Someone’s started a thread about the “history of the feud” that’s gotten all the facts wrong. According to them, our grandfather stole Hank’s prize cow and married his first love on the same day.
“Granddad was talented, but not that talented,” Jesse says.
“The McCoy boys are corrupting that sweet Thompson girl,” Boone reads in a dramatic voice. “Sweet? Have they met her? She called me an ‘absolute lunatic’ yesterday when I suggested Rita might be part demon.”
“Rita is part demon,” I point out.
“That’s beside the point.”
A truck pulls up outside, and we all pretend we aren’t watching through the window.
Callie walks in looking frazzled but defiant, her phone in one hand and a coffee in the other.
“Guys,” she announces, looking around. “Your dad here?”
I shake my headno.
“Okay good. So, I’ve officially reached peak scandal. Mrs. Delaney tried to stage an intervention in the parking lot. She had printed materials.”
“Materials?” Jesse asks.
“A pamphlet about making good choices and a list of eligible bachelors who aren’t McCoys. Todd Fletcher was highlighted. Twice.”
“Todd Fletcher smells like cheese,” Boone says.
“That’s what I told her! But cheese is preferable to you McCoys, according to some people.”
“That’s a low blow,” Jesse says.
She drops into a chair and pulls up the Facebook page on her phone. “Oh good, someone’s made a meme. I’m the ‘Yeehaw Juliet.’ That’s actually pretty clever.”
“You’re taking this well,” I observe.
“What’s the alternative? Hiding in my room while the town creates increasingly creative narratives about my sex life? At least this is entertaining.”
“They’re destroying your reputation,” I point out.
“My reputation was already weird. Now it’s weird and interesting. I call that a glow-up.”
