Page 86 of The Goat Next Door

“Dad,” she mumbles.

“I’ve got you, bug,” I whisper. “Go back to sleep.”

I carry her out of the farmhouse and down the muddy path to our house next door. I let myself in, navigate the darkened hallway, and lay her down onto the small mattress with the pink sheets.

I pull the comforter to her chin, untie her tiny sneakers without waking her, and set them by the closet door. I press a kiss to her forehead, standing in the quiet dark for a moment just to listen to her breathe, before I turn and head back out into the rain.

When I step back into the farmhouse, the air feels heavier, charged with the lingering presence of the night.

Ember hasn’t moved. She’s still slumped against the bed frame.

I slide my right arm behind her shoulders, my left beneath the crook of her knees, and lift her up. Her head drops instantly into the hollow of my shoulder, her gold curls spilling across the dark canvas of my jacket.

Her eyes snap open halfway up, blinking wildly against the dark hallway as she tries to figure out where she is.

“Brooks?” she whispers. Her voice is small, thick with sleep. “Brooks, the—”

“Everything’s fine, city girl.”

I ease her down onto the mattress, but I don’t pull my hands away immediately. I stay leaning over her, my forearms braced on either side of her shoulders, the green light from the kitchen radio casting long, dim angles across her face.

“You look like hell, hot neighbor,” she whispers. A tiny, tired line of a smile breaks through her mouth.

“You did good tonight,” I say. “With Sophie. I know it meant a lot to her.”

Ember lets out a long, quiet breath, her fingers relaxing slightly under my thumb. “We danced. I think I completely ruined Marge’s sugar budget, but we held the perimeter. It was… it was just a nice way to spend the evening, Brooks. It wasn’t anything more than that.”

I feel my jaw tighten.

That should reassure me. Instead, something in my chest tightens.

Because Sophie doesn’t do “nothing more than that.”

Sophie loves with her whole body. Completely. Instantly. She doesn’t ration affection or hold pieces of herself back in preparation for disappointment.

If someone shows up for her, she makes room for them without hesitation.

And Ember keeps showing up.

The casual ease of her answer, the way she makes it sound like a temporary favor performed during a power outage, grates against the raw, defensive walls I’ve spent years building.

“Don’t do that,” I say, my voice sharper than I intended.

Ember shifts on the pillows, her brows drawing together as she props herself up on one elbow, looking at me with genuine confusion. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” I say, looking past her toward the dark window pane where the mist is streaking the glass. “Like she’s a temporary project. Like you’re just visiting, playing at being a part of this, and then you’ll be gone when the weather turns.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re unfair.

Ember has never treated Sophie like an obligation. If anything, she pays too much attention. She kneels when Sophie talks to her. Remembers things. Listens seriously to stories about kindergarten politics and goats and constellations.

Ember freezes, the sleepiness evaporating from her expression, replaced by a sudden, sharp indignation. “A project? Brooks, what are you talking about? I spent all night trying to keep her calm while you were out there. I didn’t think of her as a ‘project.’ I thought I was helping a friend.”

“It’s the truth,” I say, and the words taste like bile.

The memory of Lauren’s empty closet, the sound of that white sedan pulling away, and the way Sophie still waits at the window—it all surfaces, a tidal wave of resentment and terror.

“I can’t do this to her, Ember. She cannot know about this. About us. Because if you’re just here for the novelty of it, she’s the one who pays the price when you inevitably decide this valley is too small for you.”