Page 66 of Tessa and Nash

My life is a circus.

We weave toward the gazebo where people are gathering. Dottie clears her throat into the microphone, and the whole square quiets as if someone flipped a switch.

“Alright,” Dottie says, sharp even through the speaker. “If you’re here for the chili, you can wait. We’re doing history first.”

A collective groan rises.

Dottie ignores it as she’s been ignoring people for eighty-eight years.

She launches into a story about the first winter in Buckhorn, back when it was more camp than town, and I try to listen. I do. I really do. But my attention keeps snagging on Tessa beside me, on the way she holds her pie plate carefully so it doesn’t drip, on the way her eyes actually brighten when Dottie mentions old cattle routes and creek lines because to her and the town, those words are music.

She’s enjoying this.

And that shouldn’t be surprising. She’s a Long. History is basically her bloodstream. Same as me, I suppose. The McCoys have always been here too.

Dottie continues, “Back then, folks didn’t have lawyers. They had weather. And pride. And the kind of hunger that makes you make choices you don’t talk about later.”

The crowd is quiet now. Even the kids.

Tessa’s fingers tighten briefly around her fork.

I swallow.

And it hits me, all at once: I don’t actually know why our families hate each other.

I know we do, and we always have done, but I don’t know what caused it in the first place. The story goes on, and I can feel my own thoughts splintering off, circling the edges.

If the town still bites down hard on this rivalry even with me “engaged” to Tessa… it’s because there’s more at stake than gossip.

More than pride.

More than a couple of teenagers who used to compete for top grades and who agreed to be ‘engaged’ and somehow ruined their lives in the process.

A cheer rises when Dottie finishes, and we join in.

“Now there’s a sight I never thought I’d see.”

Virgil Tucker.

I turn and find him approaching, hands in his pockets, moustache bristling with opinions. Penny trails behind him, carrying a stack of flyers and about to faint from excitement.

Virgil’s gaze flicks to our joined hands because, somewhere during Dottie’s story, Tessa’s fingers found mine again, and I let them.

His eyes narrow a fraction.

“Well,” Virgil says, “guess Buckhorn’s changing.”

Tessa’s chin lifts. “Good.”

Virgil chuckles. “You always had that bite, Tessa.”

She smiles. “And you always had opinions.”

“That’s my job,” Virgil says, then looks at me. “Nash.”

“Virgil.”

He studies me for a long beat, comparing me to a younger version of my father, measuring my weight against my last name.