It happened two days after the incident.
You thought it was over. She thought it was over.
It was not over.
Mary Lou had texted you:
"Meet me in the barn. Alone. No questions. Just come." You obeyed. Like a fool in love. Or a man on a quest for answers involving rear ends and reckless country girls.
She stood in the center of the barn, cheeks bare in a red thong, old T-shirt swaying just above danger zone levels. She wasn’t looking at you—she was stretching against a hay bale like she wasn’t actively setting off the fire alarms in your soul.
“Oh. Hey,” she said, way too casually. “Just tryna remember if my glutes still work.”
“…In a thong?”
She turned red instantly. “IT’S LAUNDRY DAY, OKAY?!”
Then, without waiting, she leaned forward and wiggled her hips just once. Just enough to send your mind into a slow-motion tailspin.
“…You wanna, uh… do the spice shelf thing again?” she mumbled, voice tiny. “Scientific recreation. I read that muscle memory helps, or somethin’…”
You crouched down.
She reached back, pretending to grab a pretend spice.
Your face met destiny.
It was soft. Unholy. Possibly life-changing. You made a sound you didn’t know you could make.
And then—CREEAAAK.
The barn door opened.
“Mare? What in the world are you—?”
Mary Lou SHRIEKED.
She snatched the nearest dusty old barn blanket and whipped it around her hips like a magician hiding the evidence of a very illegal trick.
With only her bare legs and guilty face showing, she grinned at her mom like she wasn’t one second away from spontaneous combustion.
“Hi Mama!” she said, breathless. “Just—uh—stretchin’!”
Her mom narrowed her eyes. “Stretchin’? In your underwear?”
Mary Lou’s voice cracked. “It’s… new! Uh… reverse cow pose. From the YouTubes. It helps with core tension. Lots of—uh—tension.”
You were still crouched behind her, hidden. Trying not to breathe. You locked eyes with a chicken.
The chicken looked disappointed in you.
Her mom huffed. “Well, don’t throw your back out. And don’t forget we got church tomorrow.”
“Yessir—I mean yes ma’am!!”