6. Brooks #3
“Ember,” I say, trying to cut through the noise.
“No, don’t speak to me, hot neighbor! No, Brooks!
Whatever your name is!” she says. “I am so incredibly sorry. I didn’t know.
I swear I didn’t know. The truck was empty yesterday, and you were just…
you were fixing my extension cord, and you have that whole rugged, stoic, single-dad-adjacent energy, and I just assumed—”
“Emmy, I am a single dad,” I say, my voice loud enough to finally break through her monologue.
She stops dead at the top of the steps, her breath catching in her throat. She slowly lowers her hands, squinting at me through her honeyed curls. “But… Lauren.”
“Lauren is my friend. And my ex,” I say flatly, leaning my elbows on my knees.
“It was a brief thing years ago, it didn’t work out, but we ended up with Sophie.
Sophie is my five-year-old daughter. She was sitting in my truck yesterday because she was riding home with me after I picked her up from kindergarten. ”
Ember stands perfectly still for three long seconds, processing the data. Her pale cheeks transition from horrified white to a furious, burning shade of pink.
“She was in the truck?” she whispers.
“Yep. In the passenger seat. Having a juice box.”
“While I was calling you the hot neighbor?!” she shrieks, her hands flying to her face.
“She didn’t hear you, Ember. The windows were up and the alarm was loud enough to clear a riot,” I say, the corner of my mouth twitching violently as I try to suppress a massive grin. “But yes. She was there.”
“Oh, thank God,” Ember breathes, sinking back down onto the top step. She presses her palms against her eyes. “Okay. So no wife. No home-wrecking. Just a five-year-old child who currently thinks her new neighbor is a lunatic.”
“Actually, she asked me if you were a princess,” I say, standing up and swinging the heavy bag onto my shoulder.
Ember peeks through her fingers, her eyes softening with a sudden, genuine warmth that catches me entirely off guard. “Really? A princess?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, stepping off the porch onto the gravel, beginning the walk back to my own home across the field. “I told her you were just a lot of work. Now, remember—no electricity, no tools, and don’t rename any more animals until I return.”
“No promises, hot neighbor!” she shouts back, leaning against the porch rail with that crooked, brilliant smile.
? ? ?
The double doors open, and a swarm of five-year-olds bursts onto the sidewalk.
In the middle of the pack is Sophie, her bright pink backpack bouncing against her shoulders, her pigtails flying wildly as she spots my truck.
She bursts into a full-on sprint, skidding to a halt by the passenger door.
I lean across the seat and pop the door open. “Hey, bug! How was your day?”
“Great!” she pants, hoisting herself up into the high cab with a level of agility that reminds me way too much of her mother.
She slams the door shut and yanks a crumpled piece of paper from her bag. “Look, Daddy! I drew a picture of our house, and a picture of your fire truck, and a picture of the monster house next door!”
I glance down at the drawing.
It features a giant, aggressively pink square with curly yellow scribbles all over the top of it, and a stick figure that appears to be holding a very large, misshapen broom.
“Is that the pink lady?” I ask, pulling the truck into gear and navigating the quiet town streets.
“Yes! Emmy,” Sophie says, pronouncing the name with absolute pride. “Miss Honey told us that new neighbors like cookies, so we should make her cookies, Daddy.”
“Miss Honey sounds smart,” I say.
“She has glitter shoes,” Sophie informs me seriously. “So she knows things. Can we play in the yard today? I want to ride my scooter.”
“You bet, bug.”
We spend the rest of the sunny afternoon in our front yard.
I drag a lawn chair out onto the grass, a cold drink in my hand, watching Sophie zoom up and down our paved driveway on her glittery purple scooter.
She makes engine noises, occasionally crashing into a pile of raked leaves on purpose, her bright, unbothered laughter echoing across the quiet property line.
Every now and then, my eyes drift over toward the Gilded Goat.
From here, I can see the front porch, quiet and still in the late afternoon shadows. There’s no smoke rising from the chimney, no alarms blaring, and Kevin the goat has successfully migrated to the other side of the barn.
“Daddy, look at my spin!” Sophie shouts, doing a chaotic, wobbly three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn on her scooter that nearly sends her face-first into the grass. She recovers beautifully, flashing me a grin.
“Beautiful form, Soph,” I call back, smiling as I take a sip of my drink.
The valley is quiet, the routine is solid, and my daughter is safe and happy right where she belongs. But as the sun begins to dip below the ridge, casting long, golden shadows across the grass toward Ember’s porch, I realize the silence doesn’t feel lonely anymore.
It just feels like the quiet before the next beautiful, golden-curled storm.