Chapter Eight
This Week is Going to Kill Me
Dean
I should be working.
There’s a brief due at midnight, an entire section of a case I need to rewrite, and an email from Gideon marked URGENT in all caps that I haven’t opened yet because I value my blood pressure.
Instead, I’m sitting at the dining room table in a clean T-shirt and sweatpants, freshly showered, staring blankly at my laptop screen while the cursor blinks as if it’s mocking me.
No matter how hard I try to concentrate, my brain keeps circling back to—
Goats.
Mud.
And Poppy Monroe.
Poppy Monroe, who laughed so hard she doubled over while I was being dragged across my own lawn like a cartoon character.
I scrub a hand through my hair.
She’s infuriating.
All sunlight and chaos, big ideas, and that damn clipboard she waves around as if she’s so important. And now she’s got Muffin choosing her side. Again. Considering the little beast is nowhere to be found.
I open a document, stare at the screen, type two words, and delete them both.
A soft thump outside the window draws my attention. I glance up.
Muffin.
Trotting across the lawn like she owns the place.
A moment later, there’s a light scratch at the door.
I don’t move.
Another scratch.
I sigh, push back my chair, and open the door.
She barrels past me without even pretending to wait for an invitation, waddles over to her designated spot on the rug, and flops down with a grunt.
“Make yourself at home,” I mutter, shutting the door behind her.
She stretches. Smiles, probably. I don’t know. Her eyes are smug. I sit back down and glare at my laptop as if I can will it into submission.
“Still nothing,” I say after a beat. “Because apparently my entire frontal lobe has been hijacked by a wedding planner and a goat.”
Muffin yawns.
I fold my arms. “I don’t care how much Mason’s paying her—whatever she’s charging, it’s too much.”
The dog lifts her head and blinks slowly.
“She’s disorganized. Unprofessional.”
Muffin licks her paw.
“And she’s taking over everything. My lawn. My porch. My dog.”
Muffin thumps her tail once and then curls up tighter, as if she’s heard enough.
I lean back, stare at the ceiling, and sigh. “Sure, she’s cute. In a hyper-organized, ruins-your-life-with-a-smile kind of way.”
“But she’s not my type,” I say into the silence.
The silence doesn’t agree. I lean back again, stare at the ceiling, and scrub a hand over my face.
This week is supposed to be about focus. Work. Strategy. Partnership. Locking in Feldstein’s client. Closing the deal. Becoming the youngest named partner in the firm’s history.
That’s it. That’s the whole plan. No distractions. No detours. Just delivering the best motion of my life and collecting the brass ring.
Instead?
I’m chasing down goats and arguing with a woman who’s taken over my property.
Muffin sighs from the rug.
I open a new tab and click onto Reddit. I don’t even know why I do it.
Okay, I know exactly why I do it. I just want to see if anyone else on earth has lived through something like this.
I click into the “Am I the Asshole” subreddit.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Then I start typing.
And I let it all pour out—unedited, unfiltered.
Posted to r/AmItheAsshole
username: RestingBriefFace
Title: Am I the Asshole for wanting to evict a wedding planner from my guest house who’s turning my property into a three-ring circus (even though I technically agreed to host the event)?
Body:
I (36M) agreed—against my better judgment—to let my younger brother (30M) and his fiancée (28F) host their wedding on my property. His fiancée hired a wedding planner (29F) who has taken over my guest house, my yard, and possibly my will to live…
It’s a large estate I own in upstate NY. It has a carriage house/guest house out back that is now, unfortunately, occupied by this woman—the wedding planner.
And she’s… a lot. Energetic, constantly smiling. Basically, a total type-A. On steroids.
She moved in a few days ago to “oversee operations on-site.” Since then:
My dog (who belongs to my elderly neighbor but spends 80% of her life at my house) now seems to prefer her.
A goat showed up and never left. His name is George. No one knows where he came from. Apparently, he’s “a vibe.”
She’s been burning scented candles in the guest house; it now smells like a vanilla crime scene.
She sings while she works. Sometimes to the goat.
I work in a high-pressure legal job. I have meetings. Deadlines. I used to have peace. Now there’s goat poop on my driveway and a woman who makes color-coded seating charts is practically everywhere I look.
She’s not doing anything wrong per se. She’s just… everywhere. On my lawn. On my porch. In my brain. And the week’s only just begun.
I’m working remotely while trying to close a high-profile legal case that could determine the rest of my career. I need focus. Quiet. Zero distractions. I’m getting none of that.
So: Would I be the asshole for asking her to relocate?
I stare at it for a second.
Hesitate.
I read it back three times, and consider deleting it. Then I remember getting dragged across my own lawn by George.
I hit submit before I can change my mind.
It’s anonymous. No one will ever know. Just a quick vent to the internet. A digital scream into the void, if you will.
Muffin blinks up at me.
“What? Don’t judge me.” I toss her a baby carrot from my plate.
She ignores it.
Typical.
I close the laptop and stretch. Muffin lifts her head as if to say finally.
“Come on,” I mutter, rising from my chair. “Let’s go ruin a bush.”
We step outside into the cooler night air. The lawn is quiet. The catering table has been reassembled. George is nowhere to be seen. Small mercies.
And then I see her.
Poppy.
Still out there.
She’s barefoot now, walking slowly across the lawn with a clipboard and a roll of twine in one hand, a mug in the other.
She’s squinting up at the arch as if she’s imagining it fully built and fully blooming.
There’s a pen tucked behind her ear and smudges of something—probably mud or goat-related trauma—on her jeans.
She doesn’t see me.
She’s focused. Quiet. The exact opposite of how she seems in the daytime.
Muffin trots over to her without hesitation and plops down at her feet.
Poppy glances down, smiles softly, and reaches to scratch behind Muffin’s ears.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Poppy coos at her.
I stand there, watching, for a second too long.
And just like that—guilt. It creeps in before I can shut the door on it. Because yeah, she’s a huge pain in my ass but… she’s also trying. Working late. Fixing the things that go wrong. Carrying more weight than anyone sees. All for my brother and Ivy.
I exhale through my nose and head back inside, ignoring the discomfort sitting in my chest.
I grab a glass of water, return to the dining room table, and open my laptop.
My Reddit post has blown up.
There are already over 400 comments.
I scroll for a second.
[ThrowawayWife27]: Dude. She sounds like sunshine and goats are cute. You sound like you need a nap.
I frown.
That’s… an aggressive take.
[BreadOnPurpose]: You let her move in, run a wedding, and burn scented candles. You’re not the asshole. You’re married.
[lemonlawyer]: Not the Asshole. You are allowed to not live in a rom-com. That said… is she single?
[CozyChaosQueen]: She sings to the goat?! I LOVE HER. Invite me to this wedding.
[legalbeagle96]:OP left out whether he’s developed feelings. I feel like the goat knows.
[salty_but_sweet]: You’re the asshole—if you kick her out before at least ONE unresolved sexual tension argument over cake forks.
[lilmuffy96]: Wait. Is this the guy with the thunder vest dog? I’ve been following that saga on r/dogfree. Small world.
[BagelDad]: As someone who has literally been pooped on by a goat at a winery wedding, I feel you. But also? You’re totally gonna fall in love with her.
[NotMyMothersDaughter]: OP, be honest: have you ever bought a woman flowers? You sound a little high-strung. Let the goat soften you.
[gayunclesrevenge]: Sir, you are not asking if you’re the asshole. You’re asking if it’s okay to be in love with a woman who smells like vanilla and organizes for a living. Yes. It’s okay.
I groan.
This is why we don’t trust the internet.
I click through a few more, scanning responses filled with goat puns, wildly incorrect assumptions, and at least one person suggesting I’m repressing deep romantic feelings I’m afraid to confront.
Okay, first of all—no.
Second of all… hell no.
Muffin settles in under the table, totally unfazed.
Typical.
[twoglassrosé]: Plot twist: the goat is the officiant and you’re the groom. I’ve seen this movie before.
[saltyfrombirth]: You listed “sings while she works” like it’s a crime. Sir, this is not a villain origin story. This is foreplay.
“I’m not the villain here,” I say to no one.
[cottagecore_cynic]: This is the enemies-to-lovers goat-inclusive wedding novel I didn’t know I needed.
[passiveaggressiveduck]: You could’ve just said “I’m in love with a chaos goddess,” but no. We had to get here via goat poop and candle rage.
[Judgybutjustified]: Bro. You said she’s not doing anything wrong. You invited her. She’s working. You’re just annoyed she’s not boring. You’re the asshole.
[lawyerdad22]: This is absolutely a “grumpy introvert meets cheery extrovert” situation, and I would like a weekly update, thanks.
[goatsarepeopletoo]: George did nothing wrong. Team Goat.
I close the tab.
I need to get back to work. The internet is full of unqualified opinions from people who have no concept of nuance, legal precedent, or human decency.
Ridiculous. I shouldn’t have bothered.