Page 19 of Unmanageable

Breathing hurts.

But walking next to him while trying to pretend my body isn’t hyper-aware of his exact physical coordinates is an entirely different level of agony.

“I still think it’s my name,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a lower register, entirely private between us. “Or maybe my jersey number. You want to place a bet on it? Winner gets to hold the trophy.”

“It is absolutely not your name,” I snap, focusing hard on the horizon.

He steps directly into my path, forcing me to a sudden, jarring halt on the grass.

“We’ll see, Sharky,” he whispers, his eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying amount of focus. “But if it says ‘I love O’Connell,’ I’m never letting you live it down. I’ll make it my wallpaper.”

“I hate you.”

“Liar,” he smirks.

Before I can formulate a retort, a rustle in the thick boxwood hedges nearby catches my attention. I freeze, my hand instinctively grabbing his forearm for balance.

“Look,” I whisper.

It’s Noah.

He is lying flat on his back in the mulch, wrapped tightly in six plush, stolen towels like a giant, confused linen cocoon.

“Noah?” I ask, dropping to my knees in the dirt.

He snorts, his eyes flying open. He blinks through his one remaining lens, looking up at us in absolute, dazed confusion. “Did we… did we find the goat? Is he safe?”

“We’re working on it, buddy,” Cash says, bending down and easily hoisting Noah out of the bushes by his armpits as if he weighs nothing.

“There was a goat,” Noah insists, apparently still drunk, as he points a shaking finger toward the old wooden tool shed. “His name was Barnaby. He had very soulful eyes. He understands the nature of the universe better than I do.”

“Go inside, get some water,” I tell him, guiding him toward the gravel path.

Once Noah stumbles back toward the main house, Cash turns his attention to the shed. “Well, Sharky. Duty calls. Let’s go apprehend a felon.”

We approach the shed. Cash cautiously nudges the weathered, creaky wooden door open.

There, sitting comfortably on a stack of burlap fertilizer bags, is a stout, brown-and-white goat. It looks at us, chewing rhythmically on a corner of what appears to be a discarded wedding itinerary.

“Barnaby,” Cash says smoothly, taking a slow step forward, his hands raised. “Come on, man. Let’s make this easy. We don’t want to do this the hard way.”

The goat lets out a sharp, defiant bleat and charges forward, darting straight between Cash’s legs with the speed of a professional athlete.

Cash lunges, his goalie reflexes kicking in, but the dirt floor is loose, and he catches his heel.

We tumble together into the soft, overgrown grass, rolling once before coming to a hard stop.

Cash is hovering over me, his forearms planted firmly on either side of my head, trapping me in the space between his skin and the earth.

His chest rises and falls in a heavy rhythm against mine.

My hands are flat against his chest, my fingers instinctively curling into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. I can feel his heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm right beneath my palms.

“You okay, Scottie?” he asks, his voice low and roughened.

“I’m fine,” I whisper.

He traces the line of my jaw with his eyes, his head dipping just a fraction closer, his breath warm against my skin.