My phone vibrates in my pocket for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time, I ignore it when I see who’s calling.
My head absolutely cannot handle dealing with Hannah today.
Heart either.
And thattodaymight possibly include tomorrow and extend into next week.
I don’t know if she’s calling to cuss me out or fuss me out or both, but either way, I refuse to answer that phone call.
“Are you one of Teague’s goats?” Tavi demands of the furry beast who’s now trying to lick what I sincerely hope is a chocolate truffle.
Or maybe not.
Is chocolate bad for goats?
Would it be better for the goat if that’snotchocolate?
“Looks like.” Pretty sure that’s Chester. He’s been mostly well behaved this summer, but that’s probably because of the number of times Phoebe’s accidentally let the goats out so Chester could have some fun without having to break out. “I’ll call him.”
Tavi makes a grunt-groan noise that’s so very obviouslyI don’t want you to but I know it’s the best thing right nowthat I find myself smiling despite the chaos and my own headache.
“You’re having a bad day,” I say as I dial.
“Okay,Mr.Concussion. Yes. Me.I’mhaving the bad day.”
“What’s with all the chocolate?”
“No idea. Is that what that is? Looks like bean paste to me.”
She’s lying.
I mean, of course she’s lying. Ms.Vegan but Sneaks Pulled Pork wouldn’t be Ms.No Sugar but Sneaks Chocolate too.
Gasp. Shock. Outrage.
And you know what?
Iamoutraged.
I’m outraged that hiding who she wants to be is her life.
It’s none of my business. It’s not.
But I know a thing or two about the misery that comes when you’re trying to fit into the life someone else expects you to be happy about living.
Don’t care if you’re acting out by being a shit or by eating chocolate. It still sucks to be shoved in a box.
“Get off electronics,” Teague grunts in my ear. “Bad for concussions.”
“Chester’s eating Tavi’s bean paste in the old Methodist church basement.”
Bean paste my ass, which I confirm by striding across the small space to grab the nearest smooth chocolate bar and sniff.
If that’s a bean-paste bar, I’ll give my right shoe to the goat and eat my left shoe myself.
There’s silence on the other end of the phone.
In the church basement, with its ancient kitchen and even more ancient, broken, builder-grade, public-building, vinyl-tile floor, however, there’s chaos as Pebbles tries to leap out of the purse and Tavi wrestles the goat, her arm muscles straining like a boss, her feet wide, ass muscles clenched under those loud leggings.
