Her phone pings repeatedly. “Oh look, seventeen new comments. Let’s see... ‘shameful,’ ‘disappointing,’ ‘what would her mother think’—that’s always a crowd-pleaser—and someone’s offered to pray for my soul. How thoughtful.”
“This isn’t funny, Callie.”
“It’s a little funny. Mrs. Delaney used the hashtag ‘CountryDrama.’ She’s seventy-three years old. Where did she even learn about hashtags?”
“Your life is being torn apart on social media and you’re critiquing hashtag usage?”
“Would you prefer I cry? Throw myself dramatically on a fainting couch? Write poetry about my ruined virtue?”
“I’d prefer you take this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously,” she says, her smile faltering slightly. “But if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll have to actually think about the fact that everyone I’ve known since childhood is currently dissecting my life choices like I’m the problem child at a church social.”
The room goes quiet as that sinks in.
“Screw them,” Jesse says finally. “Screw all of them.”
“That’s your solution?” I ask. “Screw them?”
“Yeah. They want drama? We’ll give them drama. They want scandal? We’ll give them something to really talk about,” Jesse says with a huge smile.
He never changes. “That’s the worst possible?—”
“I’m in,” Callie interrupts. “What do you have in mind?”
“No,” I say firmly. “Absolutely not. We’re not doubling down.”
“Why not?” Boone asks. “They’re going to talk anyway. Might as well give them something worth talking about.”
“Because it’s a terrible idea!”
“A terrible idea is letting Mrs. Delaney control the narrative,” Callie says. “At least if we’re going to be scandalized, we should do it on our own terms.”
Her phone buzzes again. She looks at it and laughs, but it’s bitter. “Todd Fletcher just liked Mrs. Delaney’s post about eligible bachelors. He added a winky face emoji. I hope she doesn’t give him my number.”
“That’s it,” Jesse declares. “We’re taking control of this situation.”
“How?” I demand.
“By being so absolutely, unapologetically ourselves that they won’t know what hit them.”
“That’s not a plan, that’s a fever dream.”
“It’s better than hiding,” Callie says quietly. “It’s better than letting them win.”
She stands up, squaring her shoulders in that way I’m beginning to recognize as preparing for battle.
“You know what? Jesse’s right. If Cedar Ridge wants a scandal, let’s give them one they’ll be talking about for the next thirty years. Maybe drown out the potato salad brouhaha.”
“Callie—”
“I’m tired of being careful, Wyatt. Tired of worryingwhat everyone thinks. Tired of living my life according to their expectations.”
“This could make everything worse. Just sayin’.”
“Or,” she says, meeting my eyes with a defiant spark, “it could make everything better. Either way, at least we’ll be doing something instead of just taking it.”
I love a fierce woman.
