Page 53 of The Goat Next Door

“We know, Daddy,” Sophie pipes up, finally abandoning the caution tape to grab Emmy’s unstrapped denim loop. “Emmy, can you see my mommy’s rings? They have blue rocks from the desert.”

“They are gorgeous, Soph,” Emmy says, dropping into a squat right there in the clover, completely unbothered by the dirt, to inspect Lauren’s hands.

She looks up at Lauren, her expression turning into something soft and genuinely warm. “Seriously. The silver work on that center band is stunning.”

“A tiny silversmith in Porto,” Lauren says. She looks down at Emmy, then glances up at me, a quiet, reassuring nod passing between us over Sophie’s head.

This is how we do it.

No drama.

No bitterness.

Just Sophie in the middle of it all, loved from every direction.

It took three years of figuring out the boundaries, of carving out our separate spaces while keeping Sophie’s world entirely whole, but when Lauren looks at me like this—with nothing but supportive friendship and a shared understanding of our kid—the system works perfectly.

There’s no old resentment, no lingering ghosts from our mistakes. Just two people who love the same five-year-old girl, trying to make sure she grows up knowing both the dirt and the sky.

“Well,” Lauren says, reaching down to ruffle Sophie’s pigtails. “Since Brooks has placed us on a strict lockdown, I guess we’ll let Emmy finish her agricultural penance. But I’m staying in the hollow until Sunday, Emmy. We are having coffee. We are talking about Marcus. It is non-negotiable.”

“I will add it to my high-priority calendar deliverables immediately,” Emmy laughs, standing back up and dusting off her knees.

She looks at me, her eyes dropping to the grease stain on my shirt before rising back to my face with a slow, teasing lilt. “Thank you for the labor intervention, Chief. I promise not to touch the tractor ignition until you’ve submitted your safety report.”

“See that you don’t,” I say, but the corner of my mouth twitches.

“Come on, bug,” Lauren says, guiding Sophie as they start the slow walk back toward our side of the fence. “Let’s go see if your dad has anything in his fridge that isn’t old cheddar or an engine part.”

I linger by the fence post for a second, watching Emmy grip the heavy iron handle of the aerator again. She catches me looking, tilts her chin up, and gives me a sharp wink that sends a sudden, hot bolt of electricity straight down my spine.

Twenty-five, I remind myself, as I force my boots to turn around and follow my family back across the grass. Twenty-five, Lawson. Keep your hands in your pockets.

Twenty-five. Like repeating the number enough times will magically fix whatever the hell is happening to me every time she smiles.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

Lauren is sitting on the counter by the sink, her long skirt draped over the edge, her bare feet swinging rhythmically against the lower cabinets while she sips a glass of ice water.

Sophie is at the small wooden table in the corner, completely absorbed in a highly complex coloring project involving three different shades of purple crayon.

I’m standing by the open backdoor, the screen letting in the sweet, warm smell of the cut clover from across the line, using a rag to clean the last of the tractor grease out from under my fingernails.

“She’s great, Brooks,” Lauren says quietly, her silver bangles giving a soft, musical clink as she sets her glass down on the laminate.

I don’t look up from my hands. “She’s fine.”

“She’s a hurricane,” Lauren corrects, a laugh bubbling up from her throat. “She’s loud, she’s bright, and she’s currently trying to remodel a crumbling farmhouse with a ball-peen hammer and twelve million dollars. She’s exactly the kind of beautiful disaster that makes your chest go tight because you can’t figure out how to organize her into a spreadsheet.”

I let out a short, dry breath, tossing the rag onto the counter. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe, finally looking over at her. “Lo—”

“Don’t ‘Lo’ me,” she says.

She hops down from the counter, her bare feet hitting the linoleum with a soft slap, and walks over to stand beside me, looking out at the ridge.

“I know that look. You’ve had that exact same stoic, self-sacrificing shield up since the day the mill went down. You think because you have the white hat and the mortgage and the ghosts, you aren’t allowed to want something that’s just… alive.”

I look down at my boots, my jaw tightening.