Page 3 of The Goat Next Door

I let out a shaky breath, pulling my knees tight against my chest. “Yeah. Yeah, Mom. It’s… it’s in the account. I’ve just been staring at it. I thought if I closed the tab it would disappear.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god, Emmy. Don’t close anything! Leave it exactly like it is. Oh, wow. Okay. Okay, let’s—we need to think. What are we doing? I’ve already got a list. We need to find you a place. Something with security, obviously. A penthouse, maybe? One of those ones with the elevators that open right into the hallway? We have to get you out of that shoebox, sweetie.”

“Mom, wait, slow down,” I say, dragging the laptop across the linoleum until it hits my shins. “I’m actually looking at places right now. On Zillow.”

“Oh, good! Let me see, text me the link. Is it the high-rise near the river? I always liked that one with the blue glass.”

“No, it’s… well. It’s up north. Near the county line. I think I’m going to buy a farm.”

Silence.

Absolute, dead silence.

It lasts long enough that I check the screen to make sure the call didn’t drop.

“…A farm?” she says. Her tone has shifted completely from lottery euphoria to the quiet, careful voice she uses when I tell her I’m going to give myself bangs. “Emmy, honey. You killed a cactus.”

I huff, immediately defensive. “That cactus was incredibly dramatic, Mom.”

“You didn’t water it for four months.”

“It was a desert plant! It was supposed to be independent. It made its own lifestyle choices.”

“It turned into a black crusty fist, Emmy. It looked scary.” She sighs. “A farm? What are you going to do on a farm? You don’t even like dirt. You complain when the park has too many bugs.”

“It has goats,” I say, staring at the screen. “Twelve of them. And this really pretty farmhouse with a porch. I’m just… I’m tired of the city. I want to walk outside and not smell the dumpster behind the Thai place.”

“But what about… everything else?” Her voice rises a little, genuinely distressed now. “The shopping? The restaurants? You love that little coffee shop with the lavender syrup. Can you even get lavender in a barn? Emmy, you have a five-foot neon flamingo in your bedroom. Where is that going to go? In a tool shed?”

“I’ll put it in the barn,” I say, a small grin starting to break through. “I’m going to paint the barn doors neon magenta, Mom. It’s going to be great. High-fashion agriculture. I’ll buy sequined halters for the goats. It’ll be a whole brand.”

Another pause.

“You’re serious,” she says, her voice dropping into a flat, quiet realization. “You’re actually going to do this.”

“I’m looking at the ‘contact agent’ button right now.”

She lets out a breath that sounds half like a groan and half like a laugh.

“Oh, boy. Okay. Alright, well… if you’re going to be a goat person, we need to do it right. You’re going to need real boots. Not those flimsy ones with the rhinestones you bought last winter, Emmy, real ones. And what do goats even eat? Do they just eat grass? Let me call your aunt Sarah, her neighbor used to have a llama, maybe it’s the same thing.”

“Mom, please don’t call Aunt Sarah yet,” I laugh, my stomach tightening with a mix of relief and nerves. “You don’t need to become a livestock expert by lunchtime.”

“Somebody has to! If my daughter is going to be an eccentric millionaire goat lady, I’m going to be the most prepared mother in the state. Just… don’t do anything reckless until I look up the zoning laws, okay?”

“Too late,” I murmur, smiling. “But I love you.”

“Love you too, crazy pants. Text me the pictures. I want to see these goats.”

The line clicks off, leaving the apartment quiet again.

I look back at the laptop screen.

The real estate agent’s contact page is open, and right beneath the listing for The Gilded Goat is a large, gray button. My fingers are shaking a little as I track the mouse across the pad.

This is stupid.

This is the single most irresponsible thing a person could do with their money.