Page 128 of The Goat Next Door

“Copy that!” Theo shouts, turning on his heel and sprinting out the door so fast the bell rings for a full ten seconds after he’s gone.

I unfold the paper behind the counter, my heart doing a strange, fluttering flip that I am entirely annoyed by.

0700 hours. Shift changed. Sophie wore her hair in the loops you call ‘space buns’ today. She used three different types of glitter before school. The kitchen island at my house is clean, but it smells like pine instead of you. It’s wrong. I’ll be on the bench at 1015. — The hottest neighbor.

I stare at the blocky letters, my thumb tracing the edge of the paper.

I’m still hurt. Of course I’m still hurt.

When I look at him through the glass window of the kitchen, I can still feel the cold, hollow drop in my stomach from when he stood on his porch and told me our time together was a mistake.

I’m an adult; I understand why he did it. I’ve spent the last week dissecting it in the quiet of my bedroom.

I understand the mechanics of his fear.

Fear makes people strange.

Makes them grip too hard.

Makes them abandon things before they can be abandoned themselves.

But understanding a man’s trauma doesn’t mean you let him walk all over your lawn without a pass.

He needed to sweat. He needed to realize that the chaotic, unstructured girl from next door wasn’t a temporary distraction he could schedule around his shift rotation.

I fold the note, slide it into my apron pocket, and turn back to the flour mixer.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

By Wednesday, the bench outside the bakery has basically become Brooks’s secondary office.

He shows up at exactly 10:15 AM every single day, regardless of the weather.

On Tuesday, it was sixty-five degrees and sunny; he sat there in his uniform shirt, staring straight ahead, eating his single glazed donut like he was performing a civic duty.

Today, the wind is ripping through the valley from the north, bringing a cold, damp chill that leaves the sidewalk slick with wet leaves.

He’s still there.

Through the front window of the bakery, I watch him from behind the espresso machine.

People walk past him, nodding and saying, “Morning, Chief,” and he just nods back, perfectly calm, perfectly rigid, his eyes never leaving the glass door.

Marge walks up behind me, a tray of blueberry muffins in her hands. She stops, stares through the glass at his massive, dark silhouette on the bench, and lets out a long, theatrical sigh.

“He’s ruining my foot traffic,” she grumbles, though her voice lacks its usual venom. “Old Mrs. Gable wouldn’t come in for her scones because she thought he was waiting to issue her a citation for her broken taillight.”

“He’s just sitting there, Marge,” I say, wiping down the steam wand with a rag.

“He’s making people stress,” she corrects, but she shoves a small white paper bag into my hands. “Go give him these. They’re yesterday’s apple fritters. They’re hard as bricks, which matches his skull. Tell him if he doesn’t move his big truck by noon, I’m putting salt in his coffee next shift.”

I take the bag, my heart kicking against my ribs with that familiar, frustrating rhythm. I unbutton my apron, drape it over the counter, and push open the glass door.

The cold wind hits my face instantly, making me shiver in my thin shirt.

Brooks’s head snaps up the second the bell chimes. He’s on his feet before the door even closes, his massive frame instantly blocking the wind, creating a solid, warm barrier between me and the street.

“You’re shivering,” he says, his brow furrowing as his hands lift instinctively toward my shoulders before he catches himself and drops them back to his sides, his knuckles tensing.