Page 87 of The Goat Next Door

“We haven’t done anything!” she says, sitting up fully now, her voice rising to match my own. “You’re projecting a whole lifetime of ghosts onto me. Where is this coming from? I’m just trying to keep your daughter happy in a storm, and suddenly I’m a villain? That’s a pretty lousy thing to say.”

“We both know where this is going,” I say, pacing a small, tight circle away from the bed. “You crossed half the country because something in you wanted a different view out the window. That’s not criticism, Emmy. Hell, half the time I think it’s admirable. But people who can change their lives that fast don’t usually stay still forever.”

I sigh. “Right now, the light looks nice through the maples and you like the quiet, but when the first frost hits, the reality of this place settles in. And if Sophie thinks you’re part of our lives, I’m going to have to sit on the edge of her bed and watch her heart break all over again. If anything happens between us, nobody can know. Not Sophie. Not the town. No one.”

For a long three seconds, the only sound in the room is the low, rhythmic hiss of the transistor radio in the kitchen.

Ember stands up. Her feet make a soft, flat sound against the rag rug as she steps into my space until she’s standing six inches from my chest, her head tilted up to meet my glare.

“Then no one has to know,” she says, her eyes searching mine, desperate and defiant. “If you want to keep this between us, fine. We can sneak around, Brooks. I can keep a secret. But don’t tell me what you think I will do, and don’t use your daughter as a shield because you’re terrified of having something to lose.”

“I’m not using her as a shield,” I grunt, my hands tightening into fists inside my pockets, my knuckles aching. “I’m protecting her.”

“You’re protecting yourself,” she says, the anger draining away, replaced by a devastating clarity. “I’m here because I want to be here. But stop assuming I’m going to run the second things get difficult. Give me some credit.”

“It’s not about credit,” I say, my hand finally coming out of my pocket to touch her wrist. “It’s about the fact that she already loves you. I see the way she looks at you. I’m terrified that if I let myself lean into this, I’m just setting her up for another abandonment.”

Ember’s eyes soften, the fight leaving her posture. “I love her too, Brooks. It’s not a temporary thing. It’s not a game. I’m not trying to replace anyone, and I’m not trying to play house. I’m just here.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit. My thumb moves over the soft skin of her wrist, feeling her pulse, grounding myself. “I know how to manage the station. I know how to dig a trench. I don’t know how to handle this, too.”

“You don’t have to handle me,” she whispers, a small, real laugh catching in her throat. She steps closer, her forehead resting against my shoulder for just a second. “Just don’t push me away because you’re scared of the future.”

The urge to pull her all the way against me is a heavy, physical weight in my chest, but I just keep my hand steady on her wrist, letting her lean against me until her breathing slows down.

“Go back to sleep, Ember,” I say softly, my jaw resting against her hair for a brief second before I step back. “The rain’s stopping. You’ve got a long shift at the bakery tomorrow.”

She looks at me, her eyes dark and heavy with sleep. She nods once, a small, tired movement, and slides back under the patchwork quilt, pulling it up to her chin.

“Goodnight, hot neighbor,” she murmurs, turning her face toward the wall.

“Goodnight, city girl,” I say.

I stand there in the narrow strip of green light for a minute, watching the steady rise and fall of her shoulders until her breath deepens into sleep. I turn on the heel of my boot, move down the quiet hallway, and let myself out into the wet, mounded grass of the driveway.

23

Ember

“If I act normal long enough, maybe I’ll believe I am.”

— Ember

The seven-o’clock bell above the door gives a light, brass clink, and the first wave of the morning rush spills into the bakery.

“Morning, Ember,” Walt says, pulling his grease-stained cap off his head as he reaches the counter. “Just the usual today. Two bran muffins and whatever coffee’s hottest.”

“The dark roast just finished rolling, Walt,” I say, sliding the baked muffins into a small brown paper bag with two quick, practiced folds of the corners. “You want the plastic lid or are you drinking it in the truck?”

“Lid’s good. Don’t need to wash the dashboard twice this week,” he says, dropping a crinkled five-dollar bill onto the laminate counter. “That ridge fire didn’t give you too much trouble up at your place, did it? My missus said she saw the red flare from our kitchen window.”

“No, we were fine,” I say, offering him a small, easy smile as I slide his change across the wood. “The rain took care of it before it hit the lower lane. Sophie and I just stayed inside and did some singing.”

“Good deal,” Walt says. “Brooks is a good boy, but he treats every brush fire like it’s the end of the county. Glad you didn’t get smoked out.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

The kitchen of the bakery at three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon is a brutal, sweaty box.