Page 55 of The Goat Next Door

“Local goats report suspicious increase in human laughter.

Experts suspect a new friendship forming.

Further snacks requested for research.”

— Goats on News

I assumed when Lauren said she wanted to catch up, it was the polite, small-town equivalent of saying, “we should do lunch sometime,” which is a social contract that effectively means never.

But no. Apparently, Brooks Lawson—the man who guards his privacy like a state secret—has absolutely no qualms about handing out my personal cell number like it’s a promotional flyer.

My phone buzzed at seven-fifteen this morning, a vibration so aggressive it nearly knocked my coffee mug off the nightstand.

“The sun is up, the coffee is on, and I’ve already interrogated my ex about your current hardware store situation. Get over here. The house is empty, the vibe is critical, and I have high-grade gossip regarding the local firefighting population. Don’t make me come over there in my pajamas.”

So, here I am, standing on the edge of my porch, looking at the distance between my farmhouse and Brooks’ place.

I’m wearing a pair of high-waisted denim shorts and a vintage concert tee that’s seen better decades, my hair yanked into a chaotic bun with a strip of caution tape because I couldn’t find a hair tie.

Brooks is at the station. Sophie is at kindergarten.

I am essentially walking into a trap, but it’s a trap that smells like fresh coffee and promises of gossip, so I don’t put up much of a fight.

When I reach the porch, the door is already swinging open. Lauren is leaning against the doorframe, holding two ceramic mugs, looking effortlessly chic in a linen jumpsuit that makes me feel like I’ve dressed myself entirely in “laundry day” aesthetic.

“You came,” she says, a slow, predatory grin spreading across her face. “I was fully prepared to send a search party. Or at least have Brooks pull you over for a ‘safety inspection’ on your walk.”

“He wouldn’t dare,” I say, stepping into the kitchen. It’s cleaner than mine… obnoxiously so. “And for the record, your ex is a menace for giving out my number.”

Lauren laughs, a rich, melodic sound, and hands me a mug. “I kind of stole it from his phone. Sit.”

She hops onto the kitchen island, swinging her legs.

Lauren pulls a tube of gouache and a half-eaten granola bar out of her bag, dumping them onto the counter like she’s a magician pulling junk out of a hat.

Finally, she digs out a pair of oversized, eccentric sunglasses and puts them on. Inside.

“I’ve been staring at your hair for far too long,” she says, peering over the rim of the lenses. “Is that caution tape actually, like, load-bearing, or are you just trying to prevent people from walking into your personal space?”

“It’s a functional accessory,” I say, leaning against the counter. “My morning routine has devolved into ‘what can I use to keep this mop off my neck.’ One day it was a zip-tie. Today, hazard materials. Tomorrow? Probably a piece of garden hose.”

Lauren cackles, kicking her feet against the island. “I love that. I once used an entire roll of gaffer tape to create a ponytail during a gallery opening in Santa Fe. People thought it was an avant-garde comment on consumerism. It was actually just me having a breakdown because I couldn’t find a hair tie.”

“See, that’s why we’re going to be friends,” I say, pointing a finger at her. “Most people in this town just look at me like I’m an idiot.”

“That’s because you’re a shiny, expensive woman in a town that’s been bored for forty years,” Lauren says, leaning forward. “They don’t know what to do with you. Especially Brooks. He’s like, ‘Oh god, the city girl is here, and she’s probably going to turn the engine bay into some kind of viral spectacle.’”

I laugh, but it turns into a snort. “I did try to show him a video of a goat wearing a sweater once. He stared at it for three seconds, asked me if the goat was at risk of overheating, and then walked away to inspect a fire extinguisher.”

Lauren drops her head back and lets out a roar of laughter.

“That is so him. He’s so… stiff. He wasn’t always, though. Well, he was always serious, but after the fire—after Tommy—he just kind of calcified.”

I go quiet, the playful energy in the room dipping into something a little more somber. “He carries a lot, doesn’t he?”

She reaches over, picks up a stray crayon Sophie left behind, and rolls it between her fingers like she’s thinking through something she doesn’t say out loud right away.

“After the mill fire, it got worse,” she continues. “Not just for him. For all of us. But Brooks… he never really came back from it in the same way. It’s like something in him decided that if he wasn’t holding everything together all the time, it would all just fall apart again.”