Page 37 of The Goat Next Door

Or at minimum, an adult who can produce one meal without requiring intervention from the fire department.

I turn toward the oven.

The appliance in question is a vintage, avocado-green monster that looks like it was installed right around the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis. It has three chrome dials that are missing half their numbers, and the digital clock on the display panel is just a dead, black void.

“Okay,” I whisper, setting my jaw. “I can do this. I’m smart. I’m capable.”

I grip the heavy dial marked OVEN TEMP, push it in until it lets out a metallic click, and turn it to what I assume is three hundred and fifty degrees. A low, hollow whoosh echoes from the bottom of the appliance, followed by a heavy, chemical smell of sulfur and ancient gas that fills the small kitchen.

I wait.

I stand there for a full ten minutes, holding a box of wooden matches like a defensive weapon, watching the small glass window.

Nothing happens.

The internal temperature of the metal box remains exactly the same as the ambient temperature of the room—chilly, damp, and slightly depressing.

I turn the dial harder, twisting it past the resistance point. The knob lets out a sharp, plastic snap and comes off completely in my hand, leaving a bare, rusted metal post spinning uselessly in the socket.

Deep inside the belly of the green monster, a sudden, violent BANG rattles the sheet metal. A tiny cloud of black soot puffs out from the rear burner, drifting through the air and settling directly onto my freshly washed t-shirt, my face, and my tomatoes.

I stand frozen, holding the broken plastic knob in my palm.

The silence in the kitchen is deafening.

Outside, through the cracked window, I can hear Kevin the goat letting out a loud, mocking bleat from the pasture, as if he personally orchestrated the mechanical failure.

A hot, prickly wave of pressure begins to build right behind my eyes. I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat feels like a piece of dry drywall.

I don’t want to cry.

I don’t cry.

Crying is terrible and it ruins my makeup.

But I am so incredibly embarrassed, and I am so deeply pissed off.

I wanted to give something back to him. I wanted to show Brooks that I am not just a walking liability, or a headache, or a city cliché who needs to be rescued every twenty-four hours by the local civil services.

I wanted to be a good neighbor.

Brooks keeps showing up for me over and over again without making me feel incompetent about it.

Which somehow makes me want to prove myself even more.

I don’t want to be the disaster next door forever.

I don’t want him looking at me with that mixture of concern and exhaustion every time I pick up a tool.

Instead, I am covered in carbon debris, my kitchen smells like a chemical weapon testing site, and I have effectively broken a knob off a machine older than my parents.

I pull my phone out of my pocket with a shaky, uncoordinated hand. The screen is smudged with soot. I open the text thread with Brooks.

Me: Hey. Terrible news. I think I need to cancel dinner tonight. I’m so sorry to disappoint Sophie.

I hit send, drop the phone onto the floorboards between my boots, and slide my back down against the base cabinet. I sink down onto the kitchen floor, my knees pulling up to my chest, burying my face in my forearms.

I just sit there, letting the quiet, pathetic frustration simmer in the dark.