I’ve been waking up at 5 a.m. since I was twelve—farm life doesn’t wait. While my classmates Snapchatted lattes, I fed calves and hauled hay. They teased me—“Hay Girl,” “Bessie’s Bestie”—even teachers chuckled. I smelled like manure one morning after saving a calf, and all they did was wrinkle their noses. By graduation, I didn’t get a single party invite.
Ten years later, I almost ignored our reunion invite. Instead, I showed up in boots and a denim jacket. The room went quiet. “Is that Callie? The cow girl?” someone whispered. It was Rustin Ford, the former golden boy. He looked surprised. “I follow your TikTok—‘CallieCountry,’ right? You’ve got, what, a hundred thousand followers?” I smiled. “Hundred thirty-two.”
