Page 36 of The Goat Next Door

I stare at her. The kitchen is getting darker now, shadows stretching across the yellow floorboards.

She’s sitting there looking completely ridiculous, covered in dust, teasing me in front of my daughter.

“Fine,” I say, letting out a short breath.

“Victory!” Emmy shouts, tossing her left hand in the air while Sophie cheers, clapping her hands. “Six o’clock sharp, Captain. Don’t be late or I’ll give your portion to Kevin.”

“The goat doesn’t eat pasta,” I say, standing up to grab the kit.

“Don’t limit him. Kevin eats whatever he wants. He’s a majestic creature,” she calls back as I grab Sophie’s hand and start guiding her toward the front door.

“Go to bed, Emmy,” I say as we step out onto the porch.

“Goodnight, donut lady!” Sophie yells, waving over her shoulder.

“Goodnight, tiny trespasser!” Ember’s voice echoes from inside the dark house—small and tired, but still carrying that sharp, stubborn edge.

I walk back across the pasture in the cool evening air. Sophie is skipping beside me, pink boots clicking against the stones, still talking about the donut lady and the pasta.

I look back once before we hit our driveway. The lights in the Gilded Goat kitchen are already off, the house standing quiet against the dark ridge.

I shake my head, a small, reluctant smile breaking through as I pull my keys out of my pocket. It’s going to be a long weekend.

I pick Sophie up, settling her against my hip.

“Daddy, why was she wearing a blue glove?” Sophie asks, resting her head on my shoulder.

“She got a little boo-boo at work, bug. She was trying to hide it.”

“Is she a hero?”

I pause, looking at the dark house one last time. “Yeah, Soph. I think she is.”

“Are you gonna help her finish the floor?”

“Maybe,” I say, turning toward our house. “Maybe I will.”

9

Ember

“The secret to happiness is simple:

eat well, be loud often, and never admit you were wrong.”

— Ancient Goat Wisdom

The organic heirloom tomatoes I bought at the market forty miles away are currently staring up at me from the rusted laminate counter like small, red accusations. Beside them, a box of penne and a jar of single-estate olive oil sit in a pool of gray afternoon light.

I am determined. I am focused.

I have wet my curls down until they are somewhat submissive, pinning them back with a pair of clips, and I’ve applied a fresh, aggressive coat of my matte red lipstick.

Today is a restructuring day.

Today, I do not fail.

I am going to cook a flawlessly balanced, premium Italian dinner for my hot, grumpy fireman neighbor and his tiny daughter, and I am going to prove that I am a functional adult who can handle a kitchen without a culinary emergency response team.