Chapter 13
Don’t say sperm
Gage
Neighborly: “Town eagle loots new resident’s belongings. Will authorities respond to the crime? Read the whole story!”—Garland Russell
Three hours after Goose departed with his new treasure, our small army had nearly every box of Zoey’s unpacked. A miracle in itself given that the nightmarish labeling system had included boxes labeled Rando Junk I Might Need Someday and Makeup, Socks, and Mail to Open.
The apartment had gone from blank walls and bare floors to a home…
a home for someone with chaotic taste. Zoey favored color, lots of it, from the green velvet couch to the distressed turquoise chest she used as a coffee table.
Her art was splashy and vibrant, as was her excessive collection of throw pillows.
And everything had a story. The two purple swivel chairs on the long wall of the living room had been a graduation gift from her favorite great-aunt.
She’d paired them with the raw-edged console table that Hana and Billie had delivered earlier.
Apparently it had been in Zoey’s room at the lodge until an unfortunate run-in with a can of SpaghettiOs had left a blotchy orange stain on the top.
There was no unifying theme, no cohesive plan that I could identify in the tie-dyed plaster human skull and the string of disco ball lights she’d hung on the wall. But somehow it all said “Zoey Moody.”
My parents had gifted Zoey a practical selection of picture hangers and had therefore been tasked with putting up Zoey’s framed photos and artwork, including the Do Epic Shit print now hanging proudly on the bathroom wall above the toilet.
Cam and Hazel had curtained off the dining room and were doing God knows what inside.
Zoey, my dog, and my mother were sprawled on the couch, taking a break to watch me and Levi hang the TV on the living room wall.
And I was still thinking about that damn bra.
I was a responsible, reliable adult with two successful businesses.
Yet here I was, trapped in some ridiculous mind loop, wondering what Zoey had on underneath her sweatshirt right now.
Did it have sequins? What color was it? The more time I spent with her, the more time I spent thinking about her. It was definitely a fucking problem.
“Are you even trying to hold up your end?” Levi demanded.
“Sorry,” I said, adjusting my grip on the TV.
“This place turned out great, Gage,” Mom said, helping herself to one of the housewarming brownies town council member Erleen Dabner had dropped off along with a dream catcher and a large hunk of rose quartz.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said as we slid the TV onto the wall bracket. “I’m the favorite,” I whispered to Levi.
“We helped,” he announced.
“Yeah, Mom,” Cam called from the dining room. “Be impressed with us.”
“They’ve always been competitive,” my mother explained to Zoey.
“First I’m seeing it,” Zoey deadpanned, pulling her hood back up and resting her head on the back of the couch.
My mother grinned. “You’re so sweet to lie to my face.”
The sound of heavy furniture scooting across the dining room floor had me wincing. “You better not be scratching that floor,” I warned.
“Mind your business,” Cam grunted from behind the curtain.
I pointed at Zoey. “Whatever they do, it’s coming out of your security deposit.”
“Calm down, By the Book. You’ve been a landlord for five whole minutes,” she said.
“Good banter,” Hazel called from the dining room.
“Thank you,” Zoey said. “And thank you to everyone else for helping today. I’d have been living out of boxes for the next six months if it weren’t for you.”
“That’s what we Bishops do. Usually without any ulterior motives. However, if you’re not too under the weather, Frank and I have something we’d like to discuss with you. Professionally,” my mother said to Zoey.
Levi and I stopped browsing the brownie tray and eyed our parents with suspicion. We usually knew everything Mom and Dad were up to at almost all times.
Zoey held up a hand. “Full disclosure. I’m not under the weather, I’m hungover. And I’ll understand if you don’t want to discuss anything professional with me until I stop looking like a goblin.”
“Kiddo, we raised four kids. Everybody deals with unplanned midlife hangovers,” Mom said, patting Zoey’s sweatpants-clad knee. “Frank, stop hammering before the poor girl’s head falls off.”
Dad stowed the hammer he’d borrowed back in my tool tote. “Sorry, Zoey. Don’t hold it against us when we present our project.”
Zoey stroked her chin theatrically. “The Hangover Goblin is intrigued. What project is that?”
“Yeah, what project?” Levi and I repeated.
Cam poked his head out of the dining room curtain a beat late. “Yeah, what project?”
“Too late. You ruined it,” I told him.
He shot me a middle finger.
“Come on out for a brownie and beer break, and we’ll tell you,” Mom said.
Cam and Hazel ducked out from behind the makeshift curtain. “Beer? Beer? Beer?” he asked, pointing at each of us in turn.
Everyone except Zoey said yes. “I’ll take a ginger ale if you can find one.”
Once everyone was settled in the living room with their beers and brownies, Mom and Dad shared an excited look.
“Well, we didn’t want to say anything until there was actual news to share.
But since we just won our first small grant, we’re taking Hazel’s idea for a petting zoo a step further and turning the farm into an animal sanctuary. ”
“Congratulations! That’s so exciting! And what a great setting for a romance novel,” Hazel mused.
“You’re gonna need a bigger barn,” Cam said.
“And a hell of a lot more feed,” Levi added.
“Where are you with the paperwork? The nonprofit application process isn’t easy to navigate,” I pointed out.
“Ignore your buzzkill sons, and let’s focus on the me-related fun stuff,” Zoey suggested.
“We’re not buzzkills. We’re the voices of reason,” I insisted.
“Why don’t you reason that brownie into your mouth and let your adult parents discuss their plans for the property they own?” she said.
“We’re thinking we could do farm tours, let visitors come and help feed the animals. Host birthday parties and goat yoga. Cow cuddle therapy,” Mom announced.
“You want people to cuddle Fart Blaster 2000?” Levi asked incredulously. Fart Blaster was one of my parents’ Holsteins, named by my niece and nephews.
“Does this mean we have to start telling people you rescue livestock instead of hoarding it?” Cam joked.
“Yes,” Mom and Dad said, shooting him twin parental warning glares.
Mom turned to Zoey. “Since you’re doing the town’s publicity, we’re coming to you to help us get started. We’re going to need a website, email, a way to collect donations online.”
“Then there’s the biggie,” Dad said, plopping down in one of Zoey’s swivel chairs. “How do we get visitors to show up, enjoy themselves, and make big fat donations? The more donations we bring in, the more animals we can help.”
“We realize that animals aren’t exactly your thing,” Mom said apologetically to Zoey, who was reluctantly cradling Nana’s head and upper body in her lap. “But we could really use your help.”
I didn’t like where this was going. The woman was already going to be living above my office. The last thing I needed was her running around on my parents’ farm, which was adjacent to my own home. I should be putting distance between us, not getting closer.
“Think of it as immersion therapy,” Hazel suggested, squeezing onto the couch between Nana’s ass end and my mother.
“Stop trying to immerse me in animals,” Zoey shot back.
Nana’s tail thumped happily against Hazel.
“I’m just saying you’ve got a dog in your lap.”
Zoey chose to ignore Hazel’s observation. “As long as I’m not personally required to participate in cow cuddling, I’m happy to work with you,” she told my parents.
“Cow cuddling is optional,” Dad promised.
“Then I’m in. We’ll need bios on each animal.
And not just their sad, heartstring-tugging rescue stories.
Include funny things about their personalities.
Make people feel good about those big fat donations.
Think less emotionally scarring than those dog rescue commercials and more overly honest personal ads. ”
Mom grinned slowly. “Oh, I like that.”
Dad slapped his knee. “Sounds perfect. One question. How do we get started?”
“We’ll work together on the logistics,” Zoey promised them.
“Your first step should be making an appointment with your smartest son so he can help you with the filings,” I said sternly.
“Why would they make an appointment with me?” Cam quipped.
“You wouldn’t be the smartest son if Livvy and I were both in comas,” I quipped.
Levi grunted his approval of my brotherly burn and held up a fist. I bumped it.
“Gage wants to wife someone up,” Cam announced.
I groaned. “Shut the fuck up, Cammy.”
“That’s nice.” To her credit, Mom was unfazed. She was too used to us to take the bait.
Zoey was openly smirking at me.
“I’m so glad I opened up to you idiots. I have no regrets at all,” I said, heavy on the sarcasm.
“Got any candidates lined up?” Dad asked with a straight face.
“Not yet,” I said evenly.
“How do you feel about arranged marriages? Livvy and I could find a bride for you,” Cam offered.
I scoffed. “I wouldn’t trust either of you to pick out an avocado.”
Hazel pointed at me. “Hey! Offended.”
“What I meant to say is that Cam got lucky when the perfect woman appeared in front of him. Some of us can’t just wait around for a car to crash into a sign in front of us.”
“So what are your qualifications for the ideal candidate?” Zoey asked, joining in.
“I motion to change the subject to literally anything else.”
“Motion denied,” Hazel said. “We should definitely discuss what you’re looking for in a life partner. Spare no detail.”
“Where did you get that notebook?” Zoey asked her.
“Don’t worry about it,” Hazel insisted, briskly clicking her pen open. “Let’s start with personality traits. How important is a sense of humor to you?”