Page 119 of The Goat Next Door

“I’m sorry,” he says, the words tumbling out of him with a rare, clumsy haste that tells me he’s been practicing them the entire drive from the bakery.

He reaches his hand up, his thumb dry against my skin as he tries to wipe away one of the tracks on my cheek.

It’s an intimate gesture, one that usually makes my heart stutter, but today, it feels like a slight. You don’t get to comfort the wound you made and call yourself gentle for it.

I lift my head just enough to avoid the contact, turning my face toward the wall.

“Ember. Don’t do that. Don’t look at the wall. Look at me.” His hand hovers in the air between us, large and useless.

“I’m so sorry, Emmy. I was scared. I shut you out because I thought I was keeping Sophie safe. I thought I was keeping you safe from the kind of life I have to live. But I was wrong. The ladies at the bakery—they told me what an absolute ass I’ve been, and they’re right. I love you. I know I’ve never said it, and I know I’ve been a wall, but I do. I love you, Ember. Please.”

The word love is supposed to be the key.

In every book I’ve ever read, in every script where the big, stoic man finally breaks, that word is the magic bullet.

It’s the celestial alignment, the grand revelation that justifies the suffering.

But as he says it, all I can think about is the kitchen trash can behind me. Sitting at the bottom of that bin is a block of goat cheese that turned to liquid because I spent three hours staring at the wall, firmly believing I was a nuisance to a man’s survival.

I think about the oppressive silence of my house, how loud the clock ticked against the wood, and how I had to force myself to breathe because the air felt too heavy to inhale.

Movies have trained us to believe that love is a climax. A dramatic confession in an airport terminal. A kiss in the pouring rain. A man running through a city because suddenly, finally, he understands what he almost lost.

The credits roll right after.

Nobody writes about the aftermath.

Nobody writes about the person standing there wondering why it took so long to be chosen.

I take a slow, deep breath through my nose, the scent of him—cedar, ozone, and something uniquely Brooks—still filling my head, and I step back.

This time, I put my weight into it. I move out of his grip, my shoes making a dry thwack against the clean linoleum until there are four feet of open, cold air between us.

“No,” I say.

Brooks’s brow furrows, his head tilting slightly as if he didn’t quite register the syllable. “No? Ember, I just told you—”

“I heard what you said, Brooks.” I wipe the back of my hand across my cheek, smearing the salt into my skin. “You love me. You’re sorry. You had a big realization because three grandmas told you that you were being mean to the city girl.”

“That’s not fair. I was at the bakery,” he says, his voice rising in defense. “I saw you with Marge. I saw how you looked when you thought nobody was watching.”

I let out a short, mocking laugh. “Oh, so you saw me looking pathetic and decided to throw me a bone? Is that what this is? The great Chief Lawson taking pity on the girl who doesn’t know how to handle a little country heartbreak?”

“You know that’s not what this is,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been dying inside since Friday. You think I wanted to lock myself in that house? You think I liked seeing you look at me like that?”

“Well, congratulations,” I snap. “You were miserable. I was devastated. Great teamwork.”

I close my eyes for a second and exhale a shaky breath. “On Friday, I came to your porch. I saw Sophie’s backpack. I saw her shoes. And do you know what I did?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I didn’t yell,” I continue, the tears still coming, steady and quiet. “I didn’t push you or start a scene, because I knew your five-year-old daughter was inside that house, and her peace is more important to me than my pride.”

A shadow of genuine, gut-wrenching shame crosses his face. He looks down, his eyes dropping to the floorboards between us, as if the wood grain holds the answers he can’t find in my expression.

“You don’t even realize how cruel you were.”

His face tightens, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Ember—”