I wrapped my arms around my stomach, squeezed once, and let myself smile. Maybe I could do this. Maybe I could be the kind of man who woke up alone and didn’t spiral, who watched the sunrise and saw a future in it. Maybe I could be enough, for Macon, for the baby, for myself.
The thought was terrifying. But it also felt a lot like hope.
I buried my face in the pillow that still smelled like him and let myself drift, the dawn creeping across my skin, warming me from the outside in.
* * * *
I made it to the barn before the coffee machine had finished hissing. Montana mornings always seemed to move at double speed—five minutes of sky, and the whole world was awake. I trudged through the dew, boots leaving dark bruises in the grass, and let the chill bite at my ankles where the cuffs rode up.
Rawley’s barn was just as I remembered it: red siding faded to the color of dried blood, loft windows bleary with years of wind, the whole building leaning slightly east, like it wanted to get a better look at the river before it gave up and fell over.
Inside, the air was syrupy with the scent of animals and old straw. The goats had already started their morning insurrection, butting the metal gate and hollering for anyone with opposable thumbs to liberate them. Beyoncé was ringleader as always, balancing on the salt block and glaring at me with the contempt of a dethroned queen.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re starving,” I muttered, popping the latch. The goats surged forward, a tidal wave of fur and sharp knees. Panic and Disorder, the two most antisocial of the herd, elbowed their way to the front and tried to climb my legs. I set a scoop of feed in the trough, then another, and let the animals swarm me.
It was impossible not to smile around them. Even in the city, I’d always preferred the company of things that didn’t demand explanations. The goats wanted two things: food and a good head scratch. Sometimes both at once. They nuzzled my hands, lips tickling the skin, and I let myself forget everything else—the emails, the family, the ghosts of arguments still hanging in the kitchen.
I worked my way through the stalls, refilling water buckets and tossing hay into the racks. Every time I bent down, my belly pressed against my thighs, a constant reminder that I was, in fact, growing a person and not just faking it for attention.
At least the goats didn’t care. If anything, they seemed more attached than ever, crowding around me, nipping at my sleeves, taking turns head-butting my shins in solidarity.
I was elbow-deep in the mineral bin when I heard footsteps at the barn door, soft and deliberate.
Jojo.
He had the uncanny ability to move through the world like he weighed nothing, even almost six months pregnant and shaped like a lowercase “b.” His hair was down today, caught in a loose braid that kept falling forward into his face. He wore a faded pink hoodie that said “Emotional Support Baker” and it looked like he’d slept in it, which I guessed he had.
“Hey,” he said, voice as gentle as a lamb. He hovered at the threshold, arms tucked around his own middle, like the baby might try to make a break for it if he let go.
I braced myself, not sure if this would be one of those awkward “so you married my boyfriend’s best friend” moments or if he’d just ignore me entirely and head for the chickens.
Instead, he smiled. It was small, but it took the sting out of my shoulders.
“Morning,” I offered, like I actually knew how to talk to people before noon.
He came closer, picking his way around the feed bins, and knelt to scratch the ears of the oldest goat. “You survived the night,” he said, not quite a question.
“Barely,” I said, then caught myself. “I mean, yeah. It was… good. We slept, mostly.”
He snorted, a sound so quick and bright that Beyoncé whipped her head around in suspicion. “That’s a first aroundhere. Macon usually wakes up at three and does push-ups until sunrise.”
I laughed. “He was gone before I woke up.”
Jojo nodded, rolling his eyes like this was standard operating procedure. “He’ll be back for second breakfast. He always is.”
I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands, so I patted the side of a goat who’d climbed onto the hay bale beside me. “You need help with chores?” I asked, desperate to fill the air with anything but silence.
He shrugged. “I was coming to see if you needed help.”
I blinked. “I think I’m good. Unless the goats are plotting another jailbreak.”
“Always,” he said. “But you’re doing great.” He reached for a handful of hay, scattering it across the pen for the littler ones. “You seem… happier. Like you belong here.”
The compliment hit me in the sternum. “I don’t know about that,” I said, but my voice was softer than I wanted.
He tilted his head, watching me with a calm I’d never managed. “I’ve never seen anyone take to them so fast. Most people are scared of getting butted.”
I looked at the goats, then at Jojo. “Maybe I’m just good at being ignored by people and animals alike.”
