Page 111 of The Goat Next Door

I’m standing by the screen door when the heavy, familiar rattle of his department truck cuts through the cricket song.

My heart does that stupid, violent flip against my ribs.

I watch through the mesh as the truck pulls into his driveway next door. But he doesn’t get out alone. The passenger side door swings open, and a little streak of pink denim and blonde pigtails flies out, tumbling into the grass.

Brooks gets out slowly.

Even from this distance, I can see the exhaustion in his shoulders.

He catches Sophie before she trips on the top step, his hand cupping the back of her head with that fierce, protective gentleness that always makes something ache in my chest.

He doesn’t look toward my house. Not once. He just follows her inside, and the screen door clicks shut behind them.

I wait.

An hour passes. Then two.

The twilight deepens into a solid navy, and the lights in his kitchen click on, throwing long squares of yellow across his grass.

My phone sits on the counter, dark and completely silent.

My fingers are twitching. The playful, confident energy from this morning is starting to sour into a restless, slightly defensive irritation.

He said five. It’s nearly nine.

I grab the phone and pull up our text thread.

Emmy: I saved some cheese. It’s lonely over here. And I’m pretty sure the goats are plotting against me without you around to look intimidating.

I hit send. I watch the screen.

Five minutes. Ten minutes.

The little bubbles don’t appear.

Nothing.

A tiny spark of heat—not from the weather this time, but from pure, stubborn pride—ignites in my stomach.

I don’t do well with silence. If he’s tired, he can just tell me he’s tired. He doesn’t get to leave me unraveled in my kitchen and then ghost me across a gravel driveway.

I grab the small wooden cutting board with the block of cheese, stomp out onto the porch, and march across the damp grass.

The dew is cold against my bare ankles, but I barely feel it.

I’m on a mission. I’m going to make him taste this batch if it’s the last thing I do, and then I’m going to tell him he’s a terrible communicator.

But as my boots hit his porch steps, the anger loses its sharpest edge.

Through the low living room window, I can see the outline of Sophie’s small sneakers on the sofa. She’s asleep, her head propped against a pile of laundry Brooks probably hasn’t had time to fold.

Any desire I had to make a dramatic, theatrical entrance evaporates instantly.

I am bold and chaotic, but I am not going to bring a loud argument to a house where a little girl is resting. Sophie adores her dad, and I adore Sophie.

I knock gently, tapping out a playful, rhythmic little pattern against the solid oak door. A shadow moves across the hallway glass. The lock turns and the door swings open.

Brooks is standing there in a plain gray t-shirt and dark trousers. His hair is damp, like he just threw cold water on his face, but it hasn’t done anything to clear the deep, dark circles under his eyes.