Page 76

“Lila, you’re in a relationship now. You need couple rituals. Shared activities. Goat yoga is deeply bonding.”

“I’m not sure physical trauma is my love language,” I watch as one of the tiny beasts headbutts her in the shin repeatedly.

Theo smirks. “Are you sure about that?”

I shoot him a warning look, dying a little inside when I remember all the things Emily shared about my sex life (or lack there of) the other night. I’m never going to live this down. He shrugs, all innocent charm, then steps right onto the grass like he’s about to downward dog his way into this betrayal.

“Traitor,” I whisper. “You’re not actually—” I start, but he’s already crouching to greet one of the tiny goats and looking far too pleased about it.

“They’re cute,” he says, shrugging. “It might be relaxing.”

Nora flops down onto her mat and pats the one beside her. “Come on, darling. I’ll even let you borrow my extra mat. It’s Hermes.”

Of course it is.

“I’m wearing boots,” I protest weakly.

“God gave us feet. Yoga gave us the excuse to show them off,” she replies, dead serious.

I realize I should be playing along—this is actually the perfect opportunity for us to be with Nora on her own, away from the rest of the family. She’s already halfway distracted, high on sunshine and goat serotonin. If there was ever a time to nudge a few truths loose, it’s now.

So I take a breath, force a smile, and unlace my shoes like I’m about to have a spiritual experience instead of an awkward interrogation surrounded by miniature livestock.

My socks are dampened by the dew still clinging to the grass.

Theo glances at me, thoroughly amused. I do my best to ignore him, impossible a feat as that is.

“Alright,” I say, stepping onto the mat beside him and dodging goat excrement by an inch, which feels painfully on brand for me. “Let’s bond.”

Immediately, Biscotti—who is, in fact, full of sass—parks himself on my thigh like I’m his personal doggy pillow.

Kiddie pillow?

Whatever.

“See?” Nora beams. “They love you.”

“Or they smell fear and want to torture me.” I eye the tiny creature, who stares back with those unsettling, rectangular pupils and lets out a bleat so aggressive it feels personal.

“Of all the things for you to be afraid of, Jennings.” Theo chuckles, too relaxed for someone scratching the head of a goat whose eyes look like portals to some mildly haunted dimension.

“Baryn’s not home, by the way,” Nora says breezily, as she adjusts a yoga block with her foot. “The extra mat was for him. I totally forgot about his trip. He’s off in Montana with his latest thing. Some kind of silent wilderness retreat. No phones. No shoes. Just men and their existential dread, brooding under pine trees like sad forest monks.”

“Sounds uncomfortable,” I say, because it does. I try—really try—to picture Baryn doing goat yoga or sitting in a meditation circle next to some guy named Rain who only speaks in affirmations, but I come up blank. He just doesn't seem like the silent retreat type.

Nora looks at me like she knows exactly what I’m thinking. “That’s how he finds himself,” she says, with a dismissive wave of her hand, like that explains everything. “Personally, I prefer therapy in the form of curated shopping experiences. Spiritual enlightenment, but make it retail.”

She leans back on her palms, watching one of the goats chew on the drawstring of her mat bag. “Oh, and there was this one time I tried Molly,” she adds, as casually as if she’s recommending a new face serum. “Ecstasy makes everything brighter. Way brighter. The stars were beautiful that night—like, painfully beautiful—until it felt like they were falling from the sky and I couldn’t dodge them fast enough.”

My eyebrows lift halfway to my hairline.

Though the fact that Molly is short for molecular will never not amuse me. It feels like a mnemonic device I’d come up with at two in the morning and scribble in the margins of my notes in a desperate attempt to pass my chemistry test in the one watered-down chem course I was forced to take in undergrad.

She shrugs. “If anyone ever offers you the blue one with a Darth Vader-looking robot printed on it, do not accept. Trust me. That little Sith lord will mess up your whole night.”

“Very…centering?” I offer, because I genuinely have no idea what response fits this kind of story.

“Exactly!” she chirps, eyes wide and delighted, clearly missing the sarcasm altogether.