Page 8 of The Goat Next Door

The front door is already unlocked, hanging slightly askew on a rusted hinge. Emmy pushes it open with a dramatic flourish, stepping inside first.

“Welcome to the—”

She stops dead in her tracks. Her voice cuts off entirely.

I step in behind her, setting the heavy wardrobe box down on the floorboards with a dull thud, and take a look around.

I already knew what the inside looked like—everyone in Suncrest Hollow does—but seeing it through the eyes of a girl who expects a “grand estate” is almost pitiful.

The house is a complete fucking disaster.

Half of the wallpaper in the living room has peeled away from the plaster, hanging down in long, yellowed scrolls like dead skin.

There’s a visible water stain spreading across the ceiling in the shape of an oversized kidney, and a pile of dried leaves has swept into the corner of the hallway from a broken window pane near the back.

The hardwood floors are completely dull, covered in a gritty layer of grime, and a solitary, dead mouse is lying belly-up near the rusted wood stove.

I look down at Emmy.

For the first time since she ran over my mailbox, her blinding, manic smile completely dims. Her shoulders drop about two inches. She stares at the peeling wallpaper, her lips parting slightly in horror.

But then, she blinks.

She takes a sharp, deep breath, forces her shoulders back up, and slaps a fiercely determined, aggressive grin back onto her face.

It’s totally fake, but you have to admire the sheer grit of it.

Most people would cry. Or panic. Or quietly sit on the floor questioning every financial decision that led them here.

Instead, she squares her shoulders like she’s preparing to fistfight the entire house personally.

Insane behavior.

Slightly impressive.

Mostly insane.

“Wow,” she says, her voice a little higher than before. “It has… so much historic character! Look at that wallpaper. It’s practically an artifact. Vintage chic. And the ventilation in here is amazing, considering the window situation.”

“It’s a biohazard,” I say bluntly, turning around to head back to the truck.

“It’s called a rustic fixer-upper, Brooks,” she calls after me. “A little paint, some string lights, it’ll look like a boutique hotel.”

I don’t argue with her. I just keep walking back and forth between our two properties, my boots thudding against the floors.

I move, hauling in the rest of her heavy art history textbooks, three boxes labeled NEON SUPPLIES, and a massive garment bag that smells faintly of perfume and synthetic glitter.

Emmy stays inside, aggressively moving a broom she found in the closet, trying to sweep the dead leaves out of the hallway while humming a pop song entirely too loudly to drown out the sound of the house groaning around her.

Ten minutes later, the truck is empty.

I set the final box down near the staircase, my chest rising and falling slightly from the exertion. I pull off my heavy work gloves, tucking them into my tool belt.

“That’s the last of it,” I say, standing in the doorway.

Emmy stops her frantic sweeping, leaning on the broom handle. Her work boots are already covered in gray dust, and there’s a fresh streak of grime across her forehead, but she looks up at me with that sharp spark returning to her eyes.

“Well, thank you. I’d offer you a glass of water, but I don’t really have a glass. Next time, I’ll have the champagne ready.”