"This is healthy," I tell Buttercup, who's sprawled across my lap like a furry, judgmental heating pad."Totally normal behavior for a successful, independent woman."
Buttercup bleats softly, which I choose to interpret as agreement rather than the goat equivalent of "seek therapy."
Derek's Instagram feed is a carefully curated monument to midlife crisis.
There he is at a wine tasting in Woodinville, looking distinguished in a way that used to make my heart flutter.
There he is at a Seahawks game, corporate box seats, of course.And there?—
My finger freezes over the screen.
There's Derek at some tech industry gala, his arm around his new girlfriend Erica.
I swallow, zooming in on the dress she’s wearing—a gaudy ensemble that clearly costs more than my monthly mortgage payment.The smiling twosome in my cross-sights are holding champagne flutes like they've never heard the word "foreclosure."
But that's not what makes my stomach twist.
Standing next to them, looking like he'd rather be getting a root canal, is Luke Sterling.
Same dark hair.Same expensive glasses.
Same expression of barely contained disdain that I remember from his hasty checkout Monday morning.
The photo caption reads:"Great night celebrating Seattle's tech innovators!Thanks @LukeSterling for the cybersecurity tips!#TechLife #SeattleElite #Blessed"
"Blessed," I mutter, zooming in on Luke's face."You're blessed all right.Blessed with a complete lack of self-awareness."
I study the photo more closely.
Luke and Derek are standing at opposite ends of the group, their body language screaming mutual dislike despite the professional smiles.
There's something in Luke's eyes—a tightness around the edges that suggests this photo op was about as enjoyable as my current goat yoga situation.
The yoga instructor never showed up with the other goats.
Or to collect Buttercup.
Her grandmother's ingrown toenail has apparently progressed from "minor inconvenience" to "potentially lethal condition requiring round-the-clock care."
So now I'm the proud temporary guardian of a goat whose main talents include rug-eating and providing unsolicited commentary on my poor life choices.
"At least you're here," I tell Buttercup, scratching behind her ears."Unlike certain billionaires who fled at dawn like this was some kind of walk of shame."
Luke had barely stayed for breakfast Monday morning.
We'd managed approximately three minutes of SafeStay discussion before Eleanor arrived with a film crew—actual film crew—wanting to document our "love story" for the Alder Ridge historical society newsletter.
He'd excused himself to take an "urgent call" and never returned.
I received a polite thank-you email later that day.
No mention of SafeStay.
No mention of returning.
Just "Thank you for the hospitality" like I was a Hampton Inn with delusions of grandeur.
My phone buzzes with a text from Harper:Stop stalking Derek.I can feel your bad decisions from Seattle.
