Page 46 of The Goat Next Door

Ember

“I don’t need supervision.

I need better instructions and possibly a helmet.”

— Emmy

The white linen dress is sitting on my air mattress like a piece of abandoned high fashion, completely rejected by the realities of rural decorum.

It looked sophisticated in theory.

Elegant. Respectful. Quiet.

Unfortunately, when I put it on fifteen minutes ago, I looked less like a thoughtful attendee at a memorial service and more like I was about to divorce a senator on a yacht.

So instead, I’m staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, tugging at the sleeveless black denim dress I pulled out from the bottom of my final U-Haul box.

I leave my curls down, letting them fall over my shoulders, and choose a muted, dark berry lipstick instead of my usual aggressive red.

The walk from the Gilded Goat to the main fire station on Third Street takes me about ten minutes and by the time I round the corner, the heat is already rising from the black asphalt in shimmering, wavy lines.

The entire town of Suncrest Hollow is here.

Main Street is completely blocked off by two massive, sparkling clean fire engines, their bumpers polished so bright they practically blind you in the midday sun. An enormous American flag hangs between the extended ladders of the trucks, framing the entrance to the engine bays.

The atmosphere isn’t a funeral, but it’s not a parade, either.

It’s heavy, thick with the scent of hot pavement, cheap cologne, and the faint, sweet smell of the thousands of glazed donuts Marge must have stayed up all night frying.

I step onto the apron of the station, my leather boots clicking against the concrete, and immediately feel the collective weight of forty pairs of eyes shifting toward me.

The low murmur of small talk drops by about ten decibels.

I see Martha from the historical society standing near a folding table covered in programs, her pearl necklace catching the light as she leans over to whisper something into the ear of a man in a beige suit.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” a gruff voice says from my left.

I turn and see Greg—the contractor from the bakery. He’s wearing a crisp plaid shirt, his thick arms crossed over his chest, looking at my black denim dress like I’ve shown up to a baptism in a swimsuit.

“Morning, Greg,” I say. “Lovely day for a community gathering, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t think this was really your scene, sweetheart,” Greg says. “Tommy didn’t have much use for branding strategies. This day is for the people who actually spent their lives here.”

A sharp, cold prickle of defensiveness rises up my throat, but before I can deploy a highly sarcastic corporate retort, a shadow appears next to us.

“Leave the girl alone, Greg,” Marge snaps, stepping into the space between us. She’s holding a massive stainless-steel tray of cinnamon rolls. “She worked a shift on my production floor without crying or breaking my aluminum bins. That’s more than your nephew did before he quit to go play video games in his mother’s basement.”

Greg lets out a low grunt, his jaw shifting as he looks at Marge.

He doesn’t argue with her.

Nobody argues with Marge.

He just gives me one last, lingering squint before turning on his heel and walking toward the coffee station.

“Thank you, Marge,” I say, letting out a breath. “I was about to offer him a comprehensive analysis of his consumer feedback loops, and I don’t think he would have appreciated the terminology.”

“Don’t thank me,” Marge says, adjusting the heavy tray in her hands. “Just don’t stand around looking like a tourist. Help me set these rolls on the main buffet before the volunteers eat the tablecloths.”