Folks pause on the sidewalks—some with crossed arms and judgment-filled eyes, others with curiosity or quiet respect—watching us pass like we’re both a nuisance and a distraction.
They know our club exists. Most of us grew up here, got our spot from generations before us. But it doesn’t mean we’re welcome by all, even though our dirty money fills the donation bins at school fundraisers or buys tickets to the season’s festivals for town upkeep.
We’re not paying for country club memberships, and that rubs some the wrong way. Or maybe it’s the tattoos, gruff attitudes, and our refusal to conform to the quiet small town way of things.
Curtains shift in shop windows, conversations stall mid-sentence, and I can feel their gazes following us long after we’ve rolled by.
Just before we clear the town limits, fields of overgrown hemlock leading us out, a sheriff’s deputy sits parked on the shoulder. His cruiser angled just enough to be seen. A bald head that tracks us, though his eyes are hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, as we pass.
I don’t look back, but the tension of his gaze digs deeper into my back. The freedom I usually feel at this point of the ride has yet to rear its head. Unease tightens its grip even as the town disappears behind us in my mirrors. No matter how wide the road opens up ahead, it refuses to let go. The uncomfortable feeling clings to me, stubborn and impossible to shake.
I throw a prayer to the heavens and pull back on the throttle, doing my damndest to try.
SMALL TOWN GOSSIP
JOSEPHINE
The steady whirof the blow dryer in my hands makes my ears ring when I’m finally able to shut it off. Mrs. Ruby’s weekly wash and set always starts my Thursday mornings off with a bang—the gossip kind.
I give the cord a quick flick to keep it from tangling under my feet and reach for my comb, fluffing out the stiff curls she likes so much. They’re the kind that don’t move, no matter how much the Texas humidity throws at them.
The salon smells like hairspray and perm solution, an oddly comforting mix of chemicals. The radio hums softly from the corner, playing the local country station. One of three that comes through clearly across the airwaves.
My steady clientele is full of the old women in this town who know everyone’s business. They also just happen to be eager to share the latest juicy drama with anyone who’ll listen. The salon with a room full of rapt listeners is the perfect stage. And for someone who keeps her head down when it comes to the cliquey circles of PTA moms, I know way more than I’d ever need to if I wanted to force my way in. Thankfully for them, they’ll never have to worry about that.
Charlie, the other stylist who rents a chair from me, snorts from her station across the room. She rolls a cart closer to her client like she’s settling in for a show. She doesn’t turn her nose up at the town gossip any more than the rest of us, even though she’s fairly new to town and probably doesn’t know who half of the people we’re talking about are.
Between Tuesday’s quilting circle, Thursday’s evening meet-up for spades, and Sunday’s after church potlucks, information travels faster than the internet ever could around here.
“So, as I heard it, Shelby’s pregnant again, but this time there’s no way it could be her husband’s since he’s been out on the rig the last six months and she’s only four months along.”
Mrs. Ruby peers at me through the mirror, lips pursed like she’s daring someone to argue. Charlie’s eyebrows shoot up, and even her client, Mrs. Leeanne, tilts her head a little closer, probably ready to run out of here and share the news.
“At least now, maybe poor Travis will see what’s been in front of him this whole time, and kick that cheating skank to the curb like he should have done before she got knocked up the first time,” I can’t help but add. But when I know the woman’s been around the clubhouse a few too many times for someone who’s not married to a Viper, she deserves it.
Charlie lets out a low whistle. “Lord have mercy,” she mutters, though there’s a grin tugging at her red-painted lips. “That man’s blind if he didn’t already know. Her second looks nothing like their first or third, for that matter.”
A hum of agreement sounds around the salon as the rest of the ladies chime in on the conversation.
Someone clucks their tongue. Someone else laughs outright. The dryer at the back kicks on, but even it can’t drown out the chorus of judgment and speculation bouncing off the mirrors.
“Speaking of babies, how’s Lexi? I sure do miss that sweet girl’s face at the front desk.” Mrs. Ruby’s tone softens, gossip momentarily replaced by genuine concern.
I let out a soft chuckle and unbutton the cape from around her neck, before holding out an arm to help her out of my chair.
She takes it gratefully, bones fragile beneath my grip, her curls perfectly shellacked into place.
“Oh, you know, eight months pregnant in this August heat is enough to make any woman snap. But I think she’s on leave now, so she’s at least home and enjoying a cool and quiet home, while Sienna’s at preschool.”
Charlie laughs again, a master of multitasking. “Smart girl,” she says. “I wouldn’t be caught dead waddling around town right now. A high of 110 this week, the forecast said.”
We all sigh, as if we don’t experience the same weather every year.
“Oh, good. You tell her hi for me next time you see her, okay?” Mrs. Ruby pats my arm, eyes warm.
“Of course.”
I guide her toward the front, the bell above the door jingling as her husband pushes his way to help her home.
