Chapter 2 - The Facebook Feed of Lies
We sat side by side at the massive, empty head table, chewing slowly on warm, tender beef that tasted like sawdust in my mouth. Erin had loaded her plate with brisket, coleslaw, and macaroni, determined to make the Elks Lodge feel like a celebration even if it was just the two of us against the world. Every few seconds, she reached over to squeeze my forearm, her presence the only barrier between my dignity and complete collapse.
While I chewed, staring blankly at the stack of unread novels by the door, Erin unlocked her phone and opened Facebook. She had added a few of my cousins months earlier when we first began talking about wedding plans down the road.
Suddenly, her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Her breathing hitched, and the relaxed warmth in her posture instantly vanished, replaced by an alarming rigidity.
"Devon," she said, her tone suddenly dropping into an icy register I had never heard from her before. "Look at this."
She slid her phone across the paper tablecloth.
On the screen was a live video stream posted by my cousin Chloe, twenty minutes ago. The location tag was boldly stamped: The Fisher Homestead, Joplin, MO.
I leaned forward, my stomach violently dropping through the floorboards. The video showed my parents’ backyard—the very house where I had spent countless weekends replacing rotten siding, clearing storm debris, and installing an expensive subpanel so Dad’s workshop wouldn't blow the main breaker. String lights were draped across the maple trees. Two massive galvanized tubs filled with iced beer sat beside the porch.
And gathered around the patio table were nearly thirty people.
There was Uncle Ned, laughing with a can of Coors in his hand. There were my cousins, Tyler and Becky, piling pulled pork onto paper plates. At the head of the long outdoor picnic table sat my older sister, Meredith, wearing an embroidered linen tunic, her chin tilted at that familiar, regal angle she adopted whenever she held court. Sitting on either side of her were Mom and Dad.
Dad was raising a glass of bourbon, his face flushed and grinning broadly.
"Turn the sound up," I muttered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Erin tapped the speaker icon. Dad’s booming, gravelly voice echoed through the empty Elks Lodge hall:
"...to real literature! To dedication, scholarship, and true craft! To our Meredith, who just received an official literary recognition certificate from the Midwest Review for her essay on pastoral melancholia! That’s what happens when you put in the real work, folks, instead of churning out airport fluff! Speech, Meredith!"
The crowd of twenty-nine relatives erupted into wild applause and drunken whoops. Uncle Ned whistled loudly. Meredith smiled with modest, practiced condescension, waving her hand as if batting away excessive praise.
"Thank you, everyone," Meredith's voice purred through the phone’s tiny speaker. "It just proves that patience and refined taste always triumph over commercial vulgarity. It means the world to have the whole family here tonight to celebrate what truly matters."
In the comments below the video, Chloe had pinned a message: “Fisher Family Summer Bash! Celebrating our favorite author! Sorry to anyone who couldn’t make it!”
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They hadn't forgotten my party. They hadn't suffered a family emergency on Route 66.
They had deliberately organized a counter-celebration thirty blocks away at my parents’ house to honor Meredith’s unpaid, two-page newsletter mention—specifically timed to ensure that not a single member of the Fisher family would set foot in the hall celebrating my New York Times bestseller.
