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Shifting in my seat, my face managed to both tighten and frown. I checked the clock. 12:02.
“This is ridiculous,” I said to myself in a huff, turning off the TV.
The room was thrown into darkness. I stood, knowing my way around well enough to navigate blindfolded, chastising myself.
“You’re not her fucking mother,” I grumbled, unbuttoning my shirt on my way to the bathroom. I flicked on the light, flinched from the shock of light, reached for my toothbrush. Scowled at myself as I scrubbed my teeth.
What do you care where she is? She’s probably drinking beer and playing Patsy Cline on the jukebox. Bet Chase is there. Bet he asked her to dance, that crooked, conniving son of a bitch.
I spat into the sink and went back to scrubbing.
He thinks he’s so fucking slick. He thinks nobody sees him. But I do. And Olivia will never know what hit her, not if I don’t warn her—
A thump in the distance, and I stopped brushing, my ears straining for noise. A pair of female voices, and I rinsed out my mouth, zooming back through the house to the front windows.
Across the yard in the dark, I caught sight of Presley’s truck and Olivia leaning in the window. A jingle of laughter. Olivia stepped back—something was in her arms, but I couldn’t tell what—and Presley turned the truck around, offering a wave before heading back down the drive.
Olivia looked down at whatever was in her arms, and I thought I heard her talking as she wobbled toward the barn.
“What in the hell …”
My brows nocked together, my eyes narrowed and locked on her as I wandered barefoot out of my front door to follow.
She shifted her burden to one arm to grasp the cast iron handle to the big side door. It took all her weight to slide it open, her body angled about forty-five degrees to the ground with the effort. She disappeared into the slice of darkness.
The closer I got, the better I could hear her talking to something like she was its mama. Goats bleated. A pig snorted at the intrusion. Ginger nickered softly. And Olivia went on talking.
“… and you’re gonna live here now with me. You were all alone, but you won’t be anymore, will you? No, see? We’ll have each other, won’t that be nice?” A baby goat bayed. “Stop that, Brenda! Don’t—ahhh!”
Chaos erupted, and I broke out in a run, throwing the barn door all the way open and scanning for her.
Olivia Brent froze on the spot, her eyes big as ping-pong balls and her mouth opening in a little O of surprise. One leg was thrown over the fence to the goat pen, the other propped on a beam. One hand rested on the top of the fence, and in her other arm squirmed two squinting puppies. A goat on the inside of the pen tugged at the edge of her tank until she jolted back with a squeal.
I was across the barn before she teetered and lost her hold on the fence, scooping her up by the waist. The goat and I had a brief moment of tug-of-war before the sound of tearing fabric signaled her freedom.
Gingerly, I turned us, paying close mind to the tangle of her legs and the fence. Puppies wriggled against my chest, which was partially bare, but what I felt most was Olivia’s breath tickling the hollow of my throat. She smelled like whiskey and springtime and trouble, and when I set her on her feet, I stayed close to her without thinking, wanting to breathe her in for a second longer.
Her little face turned up to mine, her eyes black in the moonless night. “I … what are you doing? Why are you up so late?” The words ran together a little, but she maintained her composure for as drunk as I suspected she was.
“How about a, Thanks, Jake—I woulda broken my neck in the goat pen if you hadn’t saved me.”
Laughing, she shoved me in the chest. “You’re the worst, do you know that?” When she looked down my chest, she rolled her eyes, groaning. “God, don’t you ever have your shirt on?”
“For your information, I was brushing my teeth when you came home making all that noise.”
“Mmm,” she hummed in pleasure. “That’s why you smell all minty.”
I ignored the note, unsure what to make of it and certain I didn’t want to find out. “What are you doing out here at midnight? And what are those?”
“Oh!” she said, seeming to remember the wriggly blonde puppies in her arms. “Oh my God, Jake. Listen to this—Presley was driving me home from Joe’s because I might have maybe had a little too much to drink, and we were just outside of town when we came up on this cardboard box on the side of the road that somebody wrote PUPPIES on. Can you believe somebody would do that? This world is so fucked up.”
