11. The G.O.A.T
11
Tessa
Monday mornings are usually the busiest of my week, and this morning was no exception. I’m tired, but it’s a happy kind of exhaustion born of a job well done. My customers are happy, which means they’ll keep coming back. And that’s why Beans & Books is so successful. That customer loyalty is everything.
“Oh, hey there, Tessa.”
I pull my keys from my purse and look up to see Miss Nelly approaching from the other side of my car. She looks like she’s on a mission, so I step back up onto the sidewalk and wait for her to reach me.
“Hi, Miss Nelly. How are you today?” I ask.
“Fine. Fine,” she says, waving a hand in the air. “My only complaint is that my Puss is frantic from all the noise coming from your yard.”
I’m very familiar with Miss Nelly’s cat and her penchant for calling him “my puss” strictly for shock value. Sure, his name is Puss, but she knows exactly what she’s doing when she says it like that. I start to smirk, but then my brain processes the rest of her sentence.
“What noise?” I ask.
“The goats, dear. I didn’t know you held an affinity for farm animals. They’re a noisy lot, but I have to say, they’re quite adorable.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Nelly.”
“I suppose you should probably get home, then,” she says, and the twinkle in her eyes makes me more nervous than her cryptic words.
With a wave, she’s off, and I watch her go before quickly unlocking my car and hopping inside. I don’t know what the hell she was talking about, but I have a feeling I’m going to find out.
And I’m not going to like it.
I manage to catch green lights all the way home, and I pull into my neighborhood in record time. As I approach my street, my heart starts to pound. As soon as I turn the corner, my mouth falls open.
There, in my front yard, are at least a dozen goats. Real, live, furry goats. As I pull into the driveway, I can see they’re all staked down to keep them from wandering off. I hop out of the car as soon as it’s parked and slowly walk around the hood to survey the spectacle on my front lawn. Some goats are munching on my grass. Some are bleating loudly.
And there’s fucking poop everywhere.
Then I notice the blankets. Every single one of them has one on its back, secured with twine. And painted in big red letters, each one says, “I love the G.O.A.T.”
My eyes widen before darting toward Riggs’ house. His truck is in the drive, but there’s no sign of him, just as there’s no sign of the message my friends and I painted on his lawn. The grass is freshly cut, removing the painted words completely.
And now my yard is full of goats.
Oh, I get the message. The G.O.A.T. stands for “the greatest of all time,” which is what sports analysts predict Riggs will become by the end of his career. I’ve been hearing it for years––despite my best efforts to change the channel whenever they start talking about Riggs Malone. With his passer rating and win percentage, he’s on a fast track to becoming just that.
The G.O.A.T.
What makes it even worse are the memories. Whispered conversations in the dark about our hopes and dreams. I always wanted to own a bookstore or work in a library. And Riggs always wanted to be a professional football player. But not just any player. He wanted to be the best. The greatest of all time.
I remember the hope in his eyes whenever he talked about it. I remember telling him he’d get there. That he had real talent, and he should let nothing get in his way. I thought I was supporting him, and that he was supporting me in return. But it was all a sham on his end.
And this is clearly his way of paying me back for my drunken shenanigans the other night. Turning my back on the goats, I stomp up the steps of my front porch. That’s when I see the note attached to my door with a piece of masking tape.
“Astrid Farms will retrieve the goats tomorrow morning. Please feed them and make sure they have water before nightfall,” I read aloud, my eyes straying down to notice the two bales of hay beside the door. Looking back up, I continue reading. “P.S. Now, we’re even. ––R”
Son of a bitch.
Ripping the note from the door, I crumple it up and toss it out into the yard. The nearest goat immediately snatches it up in its mouth and starts to chew. Growling under my breath, I march inside and slam the door behind me.
Riggs can feed those fucking goats, himself. He put them here. They’re his responsibility, not mine.
I head straight to my room to change out of my work clothes, pulling on a pair of stretchy leggings and ditching my bra, completely. I pull on a soft tank top that has a built-in shelf bra, then head into the bathroom to tie my long hair up into a messy bun.
Then I wander into the kitchen in search of something to eat. I pull open the fridge to peer inside, but the constant bleating of the goats in my front yard makes it impossible to concentrate.
Are they thirsty? Starving? What if Riggs doesn’t come over to feed and water them when it becomes apparent that I’m not going to?
It’s not the goats’ fault he put them in my front yard. I feel guilty as hell that they might be suffering.
“Fuck,” I spit, then slam the refrigerator closed.
Heaving a deep sigh, I turn and head through the house to the front door. Grabbing the knob, I pause to take a few breaths before turning it and stepping back outside.
“This is some bullshit,” I mutter, and pull the front door closed behind me.
I stare out at my yard for a moment, watching the animals chomp on my grass and shit all over the place. Under different circumstances, I’d agree with Miss Nelly. They are cute.
But the blankets they wear remind me why they’re here and who put them in my yard. I look toward Riggs’ house, and movement in the window facing my place catches my eye. I inhale sharply as I see him peeking through the curtains, a wide smile on his face as he pulls the curtain back further and gives me a friendly-looking wave.
Pulling my lips back to reveal my teeth, I lift a hand and flip him off. Then I turn away, ignoring him completely. Asshole.
Time to feed the goats.