Page 142 of The Goat Next Door

Kevin lets out a flat, defiant baaa, his horizontal pupils judging me with the intensity of a high court judge, before he transitions to chewing on the hem of my apron.

“Oh, let him have a little sparkle, Ember,” my mother sighs from the kitchen table. “In my latest chapter, the rugged duke coats his entire torso in a paste made of crushed pearls and the tears of his enemies before he takes the lady-in-waiting on the mahogany billiards table. It’s highly sensory. The readers love tactile friction.”

“Mom, it’s eleven in the morning on a Saturday, and it’s Sophie’s sixth birthday party. Please do not use the phrase ‘tactile friction’ near the bouncy castle.”

My father looks up from his own tablet on the other side of the table, his reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “You know… The billiards table is structurally redundant. A velvet chaise lounge provides much better leverage for a man with a broad shoulder span. I’m editing the thrusting sequence now.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, taking a long, deep breath of air.

A second later, Martha enters with that familiar, guarded expression she always wears, her eyes darting around as if assessing the structural integrity of my hospitality. She holds out a small, glass bottle of deep amber liquid, her knuckles white as she clutches it.

“I brought this for the pancakes,” she says, her voice clipped. “It’s from the late tapping of the season. Don’t you dare waste it on the livestock.”

I take the maple syrup, feeling the weight of the gift, and smile. She might not like the mess, but she’s here, and that’s enough.

The screen door bangs open before I can even respond, and Lauren walks in, carrying a three-tiered sheet cake that looks like an explosion at a neon pink marshmallow factory.

Right behind her is Mark, her absolute saint of a fiancé.

They’ve been living out of a tricked-out camper van for the last eight months, traveling the coast, but there wasn’t a chance in hell they were missing today.

Mark is currently weighed down by a twenty-pound bag of ice and a giant wrapped box that looks suspiciously like a child-sized drum set.

“If anyone touches this cake before the six-year-olds see it, I will personally use the fire chief’s heavy-duty bolt cutters on your fingers,” Lauren announces, setting the monstrosity down on the island with a heavy thud.

She looks over at me, her sharp eyes taking in my flour-dusted hair, my unbuckled overall strap, and Kevin’s current attempt to eat my pocket.

She instantly bursts into a wide, wicked grin. “My goodness, Emmy. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward by a very confused woodland creature.”

“I am managing a multi-species crisis, Lauren,” I say, grabbing the box of plastic forks.

“Where is he?”

“He is currently suffering,” Lauren says, leaning against the counter and plucking an apple slice from my prep bowl. “He’s out on the lawn trying to inflate the princess castle with a small generator, and Sophie told him that his technique was ‘inefficient.’”

I let out a loud, breathless laugh, my chest swelling with that warm, ridiculous ache that has lived there permanently for the last year. “Did he have his official clipboard?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lauren giggles, leaning her shoulder into mine.

Mark wanders over to my dad, instantly getting sucked into a conversation about the load-bearing capacity of antique French chaises, leaving Lauren and me to our favorite hobby.

“He had the yellow legal pad and everything. I told him he looked like an insurance adjuster at a carnival, and he gave me that dark, gravelly look that usually makes the junior engineers cry. I just told him his hair looked thin from the back.”

“Lauren, you are an evil genius,” I say, shaking my head as I look through the kitchen window.

Out on the green grass, under the sun, Brooks is currently on his knees in the mud. He’s wearing an old, tight gray t-shirt that stretches over his shoulders like a second skin, his dark hair ruffled by the summer breeze, and he is staring at a giant, deflated pink vinyl turret with an expression of profound, existential defeat.

Sitting right next to him on an upside-down bucket is Sophie, two massive neon-green glitter bows in her pigtails, and a t-shirt that says MY DAD LIKES GLITTER.

She is gesturing wildly with a carrot stick, clearly explaining the mechanics of pneumatic pressure to a man who has spent fifteen years running the town’s emergency services.

“He’s so far gone,” Lauren murmurs, her voice dropping into a softer, genuinely fond lilt as she watches them. Then she looks at me, bumping her hip against mine. “Seriously, Ember. Thank you. For being so incredible with her. Knowing she has a bonus mom who lets her feed goats while wearing a tutu makes it so much easier to be out on the road.”

“Are you kidding?” I smile, looking at the little girl out the window, my throat getting a little tight. “She’s my favorite person. Well, second favorite, but her dad is currently losing a fight with an inflatable toy, so she’s winning today.”

“He’s completely obsessed with you,” Lauren corrects, giving my arm a gentle squeeze. “Every time you walk into a room, his whole perimeter drops. It’s disgusting, honestly. It makes me want to vomit a little bit, but in a very healthy, supportive way.”

Before I can answer, Marge marches into the kitchen, her arms loaded down with three massive stainless-steel trays of the bakery’s signature cinnamon rolls. She sets them down with a loud, authoritative slam that makes Kevin the goat jump three feet into the air.