Page 47 of The Goat Next Door

“Consider me deployed,” I say, instantly taking one side of the heavy tray.

I say it with far more confidence than I feel.

The truth is, my stomach is tight.

Like I’ve accidentally wandered into somebody else’s family reunion.

We work our way through the crowded engine bay, sliding past groups of older men in faded veterans’ caps and young moms holding toddlers.

I put down the empty tray and then I see him.

Oh.

Oh, that is deeply unfair.

Brooks is standing at the front of the bay, right next to the brass memorial bell.

He is wearing his formal dress uniform—the white chief’s hat tucked under his left arm, the dark navy wool jacket buttoned tight across his broad chest, and his silver badge pinned perfectly over his heart.

The uniform looks immaculate, tailored so precisely to his frame that it should honestly be considered a public safety hazard for the female demographic of this county.

His jaw is set, his eyes clear and completely focused as he talks to an older woman in a black dress—Tommy Miller’s widow, presumably.

As if he can feel the sudden heat of my gaze, his head turns. His eyes cut through the crowd, tracking across the room until they lock onto mine.

My breath catches in my throat.

His brow relaxes by a fraction of an inch, a tiny, silent acknowledgment that I actually showed up.

At ten o’clock sharp, the station siren lets out a short, low wail, and the crowd instantly falls into a deep, absolute silence.

Brooks steps up to the microphone. He reads the incident log from June sixth, three years ago. He doesn’t over explain. He doesn’t use poetic metaphors. He just speaks the facts—the wind speed, the arrival time, the structural failure of the south wall.

When he says Tommy Miller’s name, his voice doesn’t break, but his fingers tighten against the edge of the podium until his knuckles go completely white.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The silver bell rings three times, the clear, sharp metallic notes lingering in the hot air long after the sound dies down.

I look at the floor, my hand tightens into a fist against my dress, feeling a strange, heavy lump in my throat that belongs entirely to a history I have no right to claim, but can’t help but feel anyway.

Grief is strange like that.

Sometimes proximity is enough to feel the shape of it.

I look up at Brooks, and the rigid, stoic isolation radiating from his broad shoulders makes my heart ache with a fierce, sudden desire to split that burden with him, even if it’s just by standing in the same room.

The minute the formal ceremony ends, the serious atmosphere evaporates into a loud, chaotic, small-town festival. The garage doors are rolled up completely, letting the bright afternoon sun flood the concrete bay as the local country station begins to blare out from a pair of ancient speakers.

“Emmy! Emmy, look at my dress!”

A pink streak cuts through the crowd, and suddenly Sophie is standing right in front of me, spinning in a wild circle. She’s in a bright pink sundress with white lace trim, though she still has her glittery purple rubber boots on her feet.

“Sophie! You look like an absolute vision,” I say, dropping down onto my knees so I’m eye-level with her. “You look so gorgeous.”

“My daddy let me wear my boots because the fire trucks have water on the floor,” she explains proudly, leaning her small hands on my knees. “Did you see my daddy’s hat? It’s white. The other boys have black hats because my daddy is the boss.”

“I did see his hat, Princess. It’s very impressive,” I say, looking up just in time to see Brooks walking toward us. He’s unbuttoned the top collar of his dress jacket, his white hat now resting on the hood of a truck behind him.