13. Ember
Ember
brEAKING:
“Local goats report suspicious increase in human laughter.
Experts suspect a new friendship forming.
Further snacks requested for research.”
— Goats on News
I assumed when Lauren said she wanted to catch up, it was the polite, small-town equivalent of saying, “we should do lunch sometime,” which is a social contract that effectively means never.
But no. Apparently, Brooks Lawson—the man who guards his privacy like a state secret—has absolutely no qualms about handing out my personal cell number like it’s a promotional flyer.
My phone buzzed at seven-fifteen this morning, a vibration so aggressive it nearly knocked my coffee mug off the nightstand.
“The sun is up, the coffee is on, and I’ve already interrogated my ex about your current hardware store situation. Get over here. The house is empty, the vibe is critical, and I have high-grade gossip regarding the local firefighting population. Don’t make me come over there in my pajamas.”
So, here I am, standing on the edge of my porch, looking at the distance between my farmhouse and Brooks’ place.
I’m wearing a pair of high-waisted denim shorts and a vintage concert tee that’s seen better decades, my hair yanked into a chaotic bun with a strip of caution tape because I couldn’t find a hair tie.
Brooks is at the station. Sophie is at kindergarten.
I am essentially walking into a trap, but it’s a trap that smells like fresh coffee and promises of gossip, so I don’t put up much of a fight.
When I reach the porch, the door is already swinging open. Lauren is leaning against the doorframe, holding two ceramic mugs, looking effortlessly chic in a linen jumpsuit that makes me feel like I’ve dressed myself entirely in “laundry day” aesthetic.
“You came,” she says, a slow, predatory grin spreading across her face. “I was fully prepared to send a search party. Or at least have Brooks pull you over for a ‘safety inspection’ on your walk.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” I say, stepping into the kitchen. It’s cleaner than mine… obnoxiously so. “And for the record, your ex is a menace for giving out my number.”
Lauren laughs, a rich, melodic sound, and hands me a mug. “I kind of stole it from his phone. Sit.”
She hops onto the kitchen island, swinging her legs.
Lauren pulls a tube of gouache and a half-eaten granola bar out of her bag, dumping them onto the counter like she’s a magician pulling junk out of a hat.
Finally, she digs out a pair of oversized, eccentric sunglasses and puts them on. Inside.
“I’ve been staring at your hair for far too long,” she says, peering over the rim of the lenses. “Is that caution tape actually, like, load-bearing, or are you just trying to prevent people from walking into your personal space?”
“It’s a functional accessory,” I say, leaning against the counter. “My morning routine has devolved into ‘what can I use to keep this mop off my neck.’ One day it was a zip-tie. Today, hazard materials. Tomorrow? Probably a piece of garden hose.”
Lauren cackles, kicking her feet against the island.
“I love that. I once used an entire roll of gaffer tape to create a ponytail during a gallery opening in Santa Fe. People thought it was an avant-garde comment on consumerism. It was actually just me having a breakdown because I couldn’t find a hair tie. ”
“See, that’s why we’re going to be friends,” I say, pointing a finger at her. “Most people in this town just look at me like I’m an idiot.”
“That’s because you’re a shiny, expensive woman in a town that’s been bored for forty years,” Lauren says, leaning forward.
“They don’t know what to do with you. Especially Brooks.
He’s like, ‘Oh god, the city girl is here, and she’s probably going to turn the engine bay into some kind of viral spectacle. ’”
I laugh, but it turns into a snort. “I did try to show him a video of a goat wearing a sweater once. He stared at it for three seconds, asked me if the goat was at risk of overheating, and then walked away to inspect a fire extinguisher.”
Lauren drops her head back and lets out a roar of laughter.
“That is so him. He’s so… stiff. He wasn’t always, though. Well, he was always serious, but after the fire—after Tommy—he just kind of calcified.”
I go quiet, the playful energy in the room dipping into something a little more somber. “He carries a lot, doesn’t he?”
She reaches over, picks up a stray crayon Sophie left behind, and rolls it between her fingers like she’s thinking through something she doesn’t say out loud right away.
“After the mill fire, it got worse,” she continues. “Not just for him. For all of us. But Brooks… he never really came back from it in the same way. It’s like something in him decided that if he wasn’t holding everything together all the time, it would all just fall apart again.”
Her gaze drifts toward the window, toward the line of trees where the Gilded Goat sits across the pasture.
“And the town let him believe that,” she adds. “They like having someone like that. Someone solid. Someone who doesn’t move.”
I make a small sound under my breath. “That’s… convenient for everyone except the person doing it.”
Her mouth twitches like she almost laughs at that, but doesn’t fully commit.
“I think that’s part of why I left,” she says, shifting slightly on the counter. “I love this place. I really do. But if I stay too long, I start feeling like I’m folding myself into something too small. Like I can’t breathe properly.”
I glance up at her. “So you just… go.”
“Yeah,” she smiles and says simply. “I go.”
Her eyes lift, brighter now.
“There’s so much world out there, Emmy,” she says.
“I’m aware,” I say. “I’ve seen it on social media.”
“That’s basically the same thing as traveling,” she says confidently.
“Good, then I’m culturally well-traveled.”
That gets a real laugh out of her.
“There are so many places where nobody knows your name, and the sky looks different every few hundred miles, and people build entire lives around things you’ve never even thought about before.”
Then her expression shifts—more subtle, heavier. The brightness doesn’t disappear, but it gets complicated, like a second layer sliding over it.
“But it’s not simple,” she admits. “It’s missing birthdays because you’re in a different time zone and trying to pretend you’re not checking the clock every five minutes because you know bedtime is happening somewhere you’re not.”
She turns the crayon slower again, almost absently.
“And Sophie…” her voice softens again. “Sophie doesn’t get less real just because I’m not here. She grows. She changes.”
I nod. “That’s kind of what kids do. Unfortunately for all parties involved.”
“Exactly,” she says. “It feels deeply unfair that she keeps upgrading without me present. And sometimes I come back and she’s learned a new word or stopped needing help with something I thought I’d always be there for.”
Her throat works once, a small swallow.
“And I’m always happy when I see her,” she says quickly. “Always.”
I don’t say anything to that because I’m not sure there’s a comforting response.
“And then there’s this split-second—just a flash—where I feel like I could stay here forever. But then I land somewhere new and I’m like—oh. Right. This is why I do it.”
She smiles faintly and sets the crayon down carefully on the counter.
“If I stayed here all the time,” she says, more honestly now, “I think I’d start resenting it. The sameness. The walls closing in.”
She shakes her head.
“I also know what she has here,” Lauren adds smiling.
“She has stability. She has her dad. She has this place where the floorboards don’t change under her every six months.
And that matters more than anything I could give her by dragging her through airports and hotel breakfasts and all the instability I live in. ”
A small, rueful breath leaves her.
“So I live in the in-between,” she says. “I leave, I miss her until it feels physical, I come back, I try to fit myself back into her days without disturbing the shape of them too much… and then I leave again before I start resenting either version of myself.”
She pauses, then grimaces slightly at herself. “God, that sounded depressing.”
I glance at her.
“It’s not,” she says, sitting up a little straighter. “Wait—no, I mean, it is, but not in a tragic way. I actually really like my life. I swear. This just sounds like I’m auditioning for a sad indie film voice over.”
That gets a small laugh out of me.
She tilts her head slightly.
“I like my life,” she repeats, firmer now.
“I love it, actually. I love moving. I love coming back. I love Sophie. I like the in-between. I’m not trapped in it.
I chose it. It’s just… messy. I love this place in doses.
I just… also like air. And distance. And not being sentenced by the same goat every morning. ”
I laugh. “The goat is the real villain here?”
“She judges me. I can feel it.”
Lauren grins, her face lighting up. “But no, I do love everything about my life. There’s this guy, Mark.
He’s a sculptor. He builds these massive kinetic metal structures that look like they’re about to take flight, and he’s absolutely insane.
We spent three hours the first time we met arguing about whether or not gray is a ‘mood’ or a ‘lack of a mood.’”
“Gray is definitely a lack of a mood,” I state.
“Thank you!” she shrieks. “That’s what I said!”
“So, Mark is the guy?” I ask.
“Mark is the guy,” she confirms, a dreamy smile playing on her lips.
“He doesn’t care if I’m covered in paint or if I haven’t slept in two days.
He just brings me coffee and tells me my composition is ‘aggressive.’ It’s a different kind of love.
It’s chaos and it’s exhilarating, and I love every second of it. ”
She looks at me, her gaze piercing. “You deserve that, Emmy. Not the chaos part—you’ve already got the farmhouse for that—but the part where you don’t feel like you have to be a ‘lottery winner’ to be worth something.”