Page 105 of The Goat Next Door

“You’re looking out the side window,” Mother says, her keyboard clicking to a sudden, deliberate halt. “And you’ve been adjusting that top button on your shirt for twenty minutes. Are you nervous, or just airing out the goods for the Chief?”

“The humidity is ninety percent, Mom,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “I’m just hot.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums, dragging out a worn, battered box of vintage Scrabble. The edges are taped with black electrical ribbon. “Clear the pads, honey. The girl is spiraling, and we need a distraction. Jules, darling, how about a little wager? Loser buys dinner?”

A distraction. Yes, please. Anything to stop them from analyzing my sex life.

“I never bet against you, Clara. You have a wicked way with words,” he says, kissing her shoulder. “But for a bottle of the good stuff, I’m in.”

We play in a hyper-focused silence that belongs only to people who make their living out of words. The only sounds are the tiles clicking against the wood and the distant, lonely call of a mourning dove.

My mom plays VINTAGE across a triple-letter tile, her rings catching the amber light of the lamp. Dad plays QUARRY, his brow furrowed as he uses the blank tile for the second ‘R,’ his mind clearly still half-stuck in the ditch with his fictional forester.

When my turn comes, my rack is a disaster of vowels and a single heavy consonant.

I stare at the wood grain, my mind sliding back to the way Brooks had stood over me, his bare chest damp with sweat and his voice dropping into that dark, low register that made my lungs feel empty.

I clear my throat and lay down letters, connecting them to Dad’s ‘R.’

R-A-S-P.

Mother leans forward, squinting through her reading glasses. “Rasp? Twelve points, darling. A bit utilitarian, don’t you think?”

“It’s a just word,” I mutter, drawing new tiles.

“It’s a sensory word,” Dad corrects her. “The texture of rough iron. Or a voice that’s had too much smoke in it. Very specific. I’d love to know what makes a man’s voice go raspy. Usually, it’s either hard work or… other, more pleasurable exertions.”

“You two are impossible,” I laugh, tossing a tile at Dad, which he catches with practiced, theatrical grace.

“We are authors, darling,” Mother says, grinning. “We deal in subtext. And right now, the subtext of this room is ‘I really want to go next door and see if the Chief is still awake.’”

“I do not!”

“You literally checked the window three times since I played QUARRY,” Dad points out. “It’s okay. We love a man who fixes floorboards. It’s very ‘competent protector’ energy. Does he have a good toolbox? Because if he has a heavy-duty wrench, I might just have to propose to him myself.”

“Dad!”

“What? A man who can handle a wrench can handle anything,” he shrugs, playing EXERT on a triple-word score. “Forty-two points. And yes, I’m counting that. It’s a versatile verb, after all. Especially in the context of endurance.”

Endurance.

He’s talking about sex. My father is talking about my neighbor’s sex stamina in front of my mother.

I love them, but I also need them to be kidnapped by aliens immediately.

“You are cheating!”

“It’s not cheating, it’s ‘creative interpretation’,” Mom says, her eyes sparkling as she reaches over to stroke Dad’s hand. “Just like the Chief’s ‘perimeter’ talk. Tell us again, Emmy. Did he really say that? Was it a formal declaration?”

“He said he was securing the perimeter,” I admit.

Mother gasps, clutching her chest. “Oh, stop. I’m going to die. That is so—it’s so primal! ‘Securing the perimeter!’ Does he check for invaders? Or does he just secure you? Because if it’s the latter, he’s a genius. I’m putting that in the next chapter.”

“Mom!” I whine.

“You have it so bad, baby,” she says, laughing. “It’s wonderful. Don’t you dare try to hide it from us. We’ve seen you look at men before, but never with that ‘I’m going to either kill him or kiss him’ look.”

“I’m not going to kill him,” I whisper.