Page 60 of The Goat Next Door

“You needed more color,” she says decisively.

There’s a scrap of sandpaper near my elbow. I pick it up automatically and begin to smooth a rough edge of the birdhouse while Sophie paints the windows with tiny, jerky motions.

Lauren notices immediately. “You’re sanding that like it personally offended you,” she observes.

“It’s just uneven.”

“You say that about literally everything, Brooks.”

“That’s not true.”

She raises an eyebrow, arching it slowly.

I glance around the kitchen—at the cabinet that hangs a millimeter crooked, the dining chair that wobbles every time someone leans back, and the overhead light that flickers every few minutes.

“…Fine,” I admit, dropping the sandpaper. “Maybe sometimes it’s true.”

Sophie watches us for a second, her brow furrowed in thought, before leaning toward Lauren and whispering loudly, “Dad likes fixing things because he’s really old.”

“I’m thirty-one, Sophie,” I interject.

“That’s basically historical,” Lauren says, stifling a laugh.

I point the edge of the sandpaper at her. “You are literally the same age as me.”

She presses a hand dramatically to her chest. “And yet, through some miracle of nature, I remain youthful and mysterious.”

I stay there while Lauren finishes dinner, and something in my chest loosens, just a little.

The house hasn’t sounded like this in a long time.

Lauren moves through it like she still belongs here; she opens cabinets without asking where things are, hums under her breath while she works, and leaves tiny, colorful messes everywhere she goes.

It should bother me more than it does, but instead, it just feels warm.

Dinner is a loud, chaotic affair. Sophie spends most of it explaining a passionate argument she had in kindergarten about whether turtles would enjoy birthday parties.

“I think they would,” she says around a mouthful of spaghetti. “But only small ones. With no loud music.”

“That’s fair,” Lauren agrees, twirling her fork. “Turtles strike me as introverts.”

Halfway through the meal, the chair beneath Lauren gives a sharp, protesting creak. She freezes. I look down at the loose leg before pushing my plate back to stand up.

Lauren groans, her head falling back. “No. Brooks, sit down. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine. It’s unsafe.”

I head out to the garage anyway, returning with a screwdriver while Lauren shakes her head at me like I’m a particularly exhausting, albeit endearing, project.

By eight-thirty, Sophie crashes hard. One minute she’s explaining why the birdhouse needs a “tiny welcome mat for bird feet,” and the next she’s curled against my shoulder, rubbing her eyes with her fists.

I carry her upstairs while Lauren begins clearing the dishes. Sophie’s room smells like crayons, the bed covered in stuffed animals that look like they’ve just finished a long, exhausting negotiation.

I tuck the blanket around her while she blinks up at me.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, bug?”