Page 61 of The Goat Next Door

“Do you think birds actually want houses?”

I think about it, looking at her small, tired face. “Probably. Especially when it rains.”

She nods, satisfied that the universe makes sense again. Then, quieter, she adds, “Mom won’t be here tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“She’ll come back, though.”

“She will,” I promise, smoothing her hair.

She closes her eyes, drifting off before I’ve even reached the doorway. I stand there in the quiet, envying the way kids trust things so completely. They love without hesitation, without the careful, guarded walls I’ve spent years building.

When I get back downstairs, the house has settled. Lauren is at the table, organizing her charcoal pencils into neat rows beside her half-zipped suitcase. The lights are dimmed, and the only sound is the rhythmic, metallic scrape of pencils against the table.

“Mark’s driving down tomorrow to meet me halfway,” she says without looking up. “Apparently the diner near the highway has terrible coffee, but he’s emotionally committed to the tradition now.”

“That sounds like a character flaw.”

She rolls her eyes, already grinning like a fool. “He’s an artist. That’s basically our brand. He called me at two in the morning last week because he got excited about a sculpture armature. He was covered in welding sparks, talking about negative space like he’d just discovered fire.”

I lean back, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “That’s romance.”

She lets out a happy breathless laugh and shakes her head. “It kind of is.”

There’s a genuine warmth in her voice when she talks about him. I’m glad someone looks at her like she’s the only person in the world.

Lauren zips one side of the suitcase closed, and the room settles into the kind of comfortable quiet that only exists between people who know each other’s history by heart.

Lauren studies me for a moment. “You’re doing it already.”

“Doing what?”

“Getting quiet. Bracing for the silence before I’ve even left.”

I lean back against the counter, crossing my arms. “I’m just standing in my kitchen.”

“You’re brooding in your kitchen,” she corrects. “With emotional intensity.”

I shake my head, but she just smiles, knowing she’s hit the mark.

“You always do this,” she says more gently. “You brace for the empty space before it’s even here. You think if you don’t carry the weight of everything yourself, it isn’t real.”

I look down at the counter instead of at her. I look at the glitter still stuck beside the fruit bowl, the purple paint fingerprints, and the ridiculous birdhouse sitting in the middle of the mess.

“You don’t have to earn every good thing by suffering through it first,” she says.

I don’t have an answer for that.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

The sun isn’t fully up when I wake to the sound of the front door clicking shut.

I don’t rush to the window. I know she’s gone—she’s always been good at leaving without making a scene.

I walk into the kitchen, the house feeling significantly larger than it did last night. The air is still, the silence creeping back into the corners. My gaze settles on the center of the table.

The birdhouse is still there, purple and crooked and covered in noodles.