8. Brooks
Brooks
The tall man refused to share his sandwich.
Unacceptable.”
— Goats on Yelp
“Right. Well, your structural analysis is over.” I reach down, grabbing her by the crook of her elbow, and give her a steady pull upward.
She groans as she finds her footing.
For a second, her knees turn to jelly, and she sways right into my personal space. Her shoulder hits my chest, light and soft.
That familiar bakery scent—yeast, vanilla, and fine, dusty flour—floods my senses. She catches her balance against the wood of the railing, her breath hitching.
I keep my hand on her arm a second too long, just making sure she’s really grounded, before I let go.
“Whoa,” she whispers. “The world just did a little spinny thing. Very retro.”
“Probably because you haven’t eaten anything but flour and sugar all day,” I say, stepping back just enough to clear my chest from her shoulder. I keep my eyes on her, watching her balance. “Where are your keys?”
“In my pocket,” she says, nodding toward her thigh. “The un-floured side.”
I reach into the deep pocket of her jumpsuit. My fingers brush the soft fabric, and then I find the cold metal ring. I pull the keys out quickly, unlock the front door, and push it open into the quiet, dim hallway of the old farmhouse.
I guide her into the kitchen and pull out one of the old wooden chairs. The room is dark, the yellow linoleum floor still half-stripped where we were working yesterday.
“Sit,” I order.
“I am sitting,” she says, letting her head drop back. “Look at me. I am the absolute picture of domestic compliance. You should take notes, Brooks.”
“Trust me,” I say, dragging another chair across the floor with my boot, “you are not the benchmark I’m using for functional adult behavior.”
It’s only when she drops her hands into her lap that I see it.
Her right hand is encased in a thick, blue nitrile glove, but the shape of it is completely wrong. It’s bulky, stuffed with something underneath, and there’s a dark, tacky smear of red drying right at the cuff of her canvas sleeve.
My jaw draws tight. “What’s with the glove?”
“Oh, this?” She lifts her hand, waving it in a tiny, dismissive circle. “It’s a fashion statement. Industrial chic. It keeps the aesthetic consistent. Very avant-garde.”
“Take it off, Ember.”
“I’d really rather not. It’s a very chic look. You wouldn’t get it.”
I don’t waste time arguing. I pull up another chair, sit directly opposite her, and gently take her wrist. Her skin is ice cold under my fingers, and she’s shivering for real now.
I look at her left hand, which is nervously picking at a thread on her knee, then look back at the blue latex.
“Sophie, go grab the blue first-aid kit from the back seat of the truck,” I tell the kid. “The little one under the seat.”
“The one with the red cross?” Sophie asks, eyes wide.
“That’s the one. Don’t touch anything else.”
“Okay!” Sophie shouts. Her pink boots clatter down the steps as she takes off toward the truck parked in the driveway.
I turn back to Emmy, my fingers still anchored firmly around her wrist. “Peel it off.”
She lets out a slow, defeated breath and uses her left hand to tug at the blue latex. She rolls it down past her palm, and the bandage underneath is a mess.
It’s just a cheap, commercial pad she must have swiped from the bakery’s back room, and it’s completely soaked through with dark, sticky blood.
“Did Marge see this?” I ask, my voice low.
“No,” Emmy says quickly. “And don’t you dare tell her. She thinks I’m some city girl who’s going to cry and run back to the coast by next week. I didn’t cry. Not once. Even when the card reader broke and some guy told me I personally ruined his morning.”
“You’re an idiot,” I say, using the small scissors from the kit Sophie just dropped on the table to snip through the tangled, bloody tape.
“I am a woman of iron, Brooks,” she says, trying to sound bubbly again, though she winces as I peel the pad away. “I feel nothing. I am an urban warrior. My pain tolerance is legendary in certain corporate circles.”
The pad comes off, revealing a jagged, two-inch cut across the fleshy part of her thumb. It’s filled with dark red crust and tiny black flecks of metal from a wire brush. It’s deep. It needs a real cleaning.
I’ve seen worse injuries. Hell, I’ve treated worse injuries roadside with smoke still hanging in the air. But something about the sight of her trying to pretend this isn’t a big deal irritates me more than it should.
Maybe because she looks so damn tired while doing it.
I rip open an alcohol wipe. “This is going to sting.”
“Please. Bring it on. I am completely numb to—”
The second the wipe hits the raw skin, she goes dead rigid.
“—ow, ow, ow!” she shrieks, jumping two octaves. She tries to yank her hand away, but I hold her wrist. “Holy mother of—ow! Brooks! Stop! You’re extracting my soul through my hand!”
“Hold still,” I say, locking my fingers around her wrist to keep her steady. “I have to get the metal flecks out.”
“Ow! Ow! Okay, the Iron Woman has officially passed away,” she pants, her eyes watering as she glares at me through her wild blonde fringe.
“She died a noble death in a kitchen in the valley. Please tell Martha from the historical society that my last words were about architectural integrity. Ow, stop rubbing it! Are you doing this on purpose?”
“I’m cleaning your wound, Emmy,” I say, my voice dropping, trying to soothe her.
“You’re enjoying this,” she gasps, her face flushed as she stares at me. “You’ve been waiting all week to torture the city girl.”
A loud, giggling snort breaks the tension.
Sophie is standing by the counter, hands over her mouth, pigtails shaking as she laughs at Emmy’s squirming.
Ember instantly turns toward the kid, tears forgotten. “Oh, you think my agonizing demise is funny, Princess Sophie? You think the great flour bin war is a joke?”
“You made a funny face,” Sophie giggles, stepping closer.
“That was my face of extreme bravery,” Emmy clarifies, whispering conspiratorially. She’s still wincing as I apply the ointment. “Your father is secretly a medieval torturer. Don’t let the nice uniform fool you. He washes hands with liquid fire.”
“It’s just medicine,” Sophie says, leaning her elbows on the edge of the table to watch me smooth the bandage down.
“Well, your daddy has large, unfeeling rescue-worker hands,” Emmy says, her eyes flicking up to mine for a heavy, silent second before she looks back at Sophie. “My hands are delicate. They’re meant for typing high-level design strategies, not battling fifty-year-old aluminum.”
“You have white stuff in your hair,” Sophie points out, reaching out a tiny finger toward Ember’s cheek.
“That’s because I’m currently disguised as a donut,” Emmy says, leaning down so she’s eye-level with the kid. “If you eat too many donuts, you turn into one. It’s a very dangerous local curse.”
I watch the two of them, hands frozen over the first-aid kit. Emmy’s voice is light, her expression animated even though she looks like she could fall asleep mid-sentence.
She’s good with her.
She doesn’t talk down to her; she just slides right into Sophie’s world without missing a beat.
“Alright,” I say, snapping the kit shut to break the spell. “The hand is clean. Keep it dry. And don’t put any more gloves over it until it scabs.”
“Yes, doctor,” Emmy says, rolling her eyes.
She looks down at Sophie. “So, Sophie. Since your dad just saved me from amputation, and since I am currently a culinary professional with access to the finest unbaked goods in the county… what do you think about dinner tomorrow?”
I stare at her for a second, genuinely trying to figure out how her brain works.
She’s exhausted, injured, running on caffeine fumes and pure determination, and somehow she’s already planning dinner parties.
Sophie’s eyes light up. “Dinner here?”
“Absolutely,” Emmy says. “I will cook something spectacular. Pasta. With actual sauce. And maybe a dessert, if your dad lets you have fun.”
“Yes! Daddy, can we? Can we please?” Sophie is at my side, tugging on the hem of my t-shirt. “She said pasta!”
I rub the back of my neck, the grease under my cuticles catching on my skin.
I look at Ember’s kitchen—the half-finished floor, the lack of groceries, and the woman herself, who looks like she needs about forty-eight hours of sleep.
“Ember, you can barely stand up,” I say. “You don’t need to be cooking dinner for anyone tomorrow. Just rest.”
Her shoulders slump.
Emmy’s lower lip pushes out into a dramatic pout that is entirely too effective.
“Oh, look at him. The dream-crusher. The extinguisher of joy.” She turns back to Sophie. “See that, Soph? He’s denying us the ancient tradition of neighborly bonding. Probably because he’s afraid I’ll out-cook him.”
“Daddy, come on,” Sophie pleads. It’s a unified front of manipulation, and it’s completely unfair.
“I have a shift drop-off tomorrow afternoon anyway,” I say, trying to find a logical exit. “And I’ve got to finish the alternator on the truck.”
“The alternator takes an hour,” Emmy says, leaning her chin on her uninjured hand. Her wild curls tumble over her knuckles as she smirks at me. “And a man’s gotta eat. Come on, my grumpy fireman neighbor. Don’t be a statistic. Break bread with the city girl. I promise I won’t poison you.”
I stare at her. The kitchen is getting darker now, shadows stretching across the yellow floorboards.
She’s sitting there looking completely ridiculous, covered in dust, teasing me in front of my daughter.
“Fine,” I say, letting out a short breath.
“Victory!” Emmy shouts, tossing her left hand in the air while Sophie cheers, clapping her hands. “Six o’clock sharp, Captain. Don’t be late or I’ll give your portion to Kevin.”
“The goat doesn’t eat pasta,” I say, standing up to grab the kit.
“Don’t limit him. Kevin eats whatever he wants. He’s a majestic creature,” she calls back as I grab Sophie’s hand and start guiding her toward the front door.
“Go to bed, Emmy,” I say as we step out onto the porch.
“Goodnight, donut lady!” Sophie yells, waving over her shoulder.
“Goodnight, tiny trespasser!” Ember’s voice echoes from inside the dark house—small and tired, but still carrying that sharp, stubborn edge.
I walk back across the pasture in the cool evening air. Sophie is skipping beside me, pink boots clicking against the stones, still talking about the donut lady and the pasta.
I look back once before we hit our driveway. The lights in the Gilded Goat kitchen are already off, the house standing quiet against the dark ridge.
I shake my head, a small, reluctant smile breaking through as I pull my keys out of my pocket. It’s going to be a long weekend.
I pick Sophie up, settling her against my hip.
“Daddy, why was she wearing a blue glove?” Sophie asks, resting her head on my shoulder.
“She got a little boo-boo at work, bug. She was trying to hide it.”
“Is she a hero?”
I pause, looking at the dark house one last time. “Yeah, Soph. I think she is.”
“Are you gonna help her finish the floor?”
“Maybe,” I say, turning toward our house. “Maybe I will.”