11. Sophie
SOPHIE
The last strand of café lights finally clicked into place.
I climbed down the ladder—carefully this time, making absolutely certain my feet weren’t wrapped in electrical wire again. I even checked twice before stepping off the last rung. Trust, I’d learned, was something you earned. Extension cords had not.
I stepped back, tilting my head as I admired my handiwork. I’d never been good at anything. Not really. And not that I remembered. But this? This looked good. More than good. It was beautiful.
“Not bad, Sophie,” I told myself. “Not bad at all.”
The lights stretched across the square in soft golden arcs.
The banners fluttered gently in the evening breeze, flower boxes lined the sidewalks, and volunteers packed away ladders and extension cords with satisfied exhaustion, knowing they’d actually accomplished something.
For once, nobody was shouting my name across the square.
This felt… right.
I smiled. A real one. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely ruining everything for once. Maybe I was only ruining it in manageable, reparable ways. That felt like progress too.
Dottie waved from across the square before climbing into an ancient station wagon. “Don’t stay too late, sweetheart!”
I waved back. “I won’t!” That was probably a lie. At this point, I was developing an unhealthy relationship with optimism. It kept convincing me I was leaving “in five minutes,” yet somehow thirty minutes kept mysteriously disappearing.
I couldn’t leave. Not until I felt like I’d given it my all. Not until I felt it was perfect and that we were ready for tomorrow.
As everyone else slowly drifted home, the square settled into a quieter rhythm. The volunteers were gone, leaving only the distant hum of cars drifting through Maplewood Falls. The café lights glowed warmly overhead, softening the edges of the town after a long day.
I hugged Helen’s binder against my chest. I should go home, take a shower, relax a little, and eat something that hadn’t come from a food truck.
I might have a glass of wine—maybe a bottle—and sleep for approximately three days.
If I woke up sometime next week, maybe I’d find somebody else had magically finished organizing the festival.
Instead, my eyes wandered toward the temporary fencing behind the community center.
The petting zoo.
I frowned. “I should probably check on them.” The words came out before I had a chance to stop them, like my mouth had made evening plans without bothering to consult my brain first.
Because I was a responsible adult. Mostly. Still, I couldn’t just leave until I knew they were okay.
“Going to check on the animals. Margot would be proud,” I said as I made my way over. “Our family dog whisperer. Whisperette?” That didn’t sound right.
The temporary gate squeaked as I pushed it open and locked it behind me.
The goat looked up and wandered over.
“Hey, buddy.”
The little troublemaker had the same black-and-white patchwork coat I’d been chasing all afternoon yesterday, one floppy ear that never seemed to stand up quite right, and bright golden eyes full of the kind of confidence usually reserved for toddlers and extremely drunk people.
“You really are cute.” Too cute for his own good.
He trotted toward me with his stubby tail wagging so enthusiastically his entire backside bounced with every step, looking far too pleased with himself for an animal who’d committed several crimes against festival property in the last twenty-four hours.
I shot my hand out. “Not so fast. We’ve discussed boundaries. Remember?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And don’t poop on my shoes again, okay? I can’t afford another pair.” Not until Helen paid me.
The goat ignored me completely, as if personal space was merely a suggestion, and nudged my hip with surprising enthusiasm before attempting to investigate the pocket of my hoodie. He’d reached the conclusion that every pocket in the world contained snacks.
“Hey, hey, hey. No. That’s not yours.” I laughed, scratching between his ears. “You’re lucky you’re adorable, you little shit.”
He looked up at me with an innocent expression, and I felt a tug in my chest. I wasn’t used to animals looking at me like that. Usually snarling and spitting were involved before the combat started.
This was… different.
Nobody had ever accused animals of pretending. If this goat wanted scratches, he actually wanted scratches.
“That’s it.” I pointed at him. “Until somebody tells me your real name, I’m calling you Bandit.” It suited him. Tiny, mischievous, probably one questionable decision away from another felony.
The goat gave a happy little hop, which I chose to interpret as enthusiastic approval rather than a warning sign that he was about to climb on something expensive.
“You like that, huh?” I said, smiling. “You absolutely look like a Bandit. With that face, you’ll get away with anything. Right?”
At that moment, behind Bandit, both alpacas lifted their heads.
The smaller one blinked at me from across the pen with enormous dark eyes framed by ridiculously long eyelashes.
It looked permanently surprised, like every moment of its existence was unexpected.
It watched me carefully but stayed where it was, politely chewing hay and minding its own business.
But as soon as I made eye contact with the larger one, it was game over.
Its fuzzy ears perked up, and it started walking over with determination.
I waved my hand at it. “Don’t even think about it.” I took one instinctive step backward, even though I already knew the outcome.
The alpaca continued approaching, its long neck bobbing happily with every step and looking like an oversized stuffed animal that had somehow come to life and developed serious attachment issues.
“I mean it.” Now I was waving both hands. “You stay there. No more alpaca drool all over my clothes. I can’t afford dry cleaning right now or new clothes.”
Another step.
I cringed as the beast kept coming. “And your breath stinks. Didn’t anyone ever tell you?”
Another step.
I frowned. “What is it with you animals? This isn’t supposed to happen. You’re not supposed to like me.”
The alpaca ignored every word as it closed the remaining distance and promptly rested its long, ridiculously fluffy head against my shoulder with a contented sigh, like it clearly believed we’d been best friends since kindergarten.
Or perhaps soulmates. I wasn’t entirely sure how alpacas categorized these things.
I sighed. “Fine.” I reached up and scratched beneath its soft chin, still surprised by how the animals were behaving around me. The smaller alpaca and the donkey were ignoring me, which was much more in line with my previous experiences. Clearly these two were just… desperately lonely.
“You need a name too.” If we were going to be emotionally codependent, the least I could do was stop calling it “the alpaca.”
The alpaca hummed.
“I know. It’s a big responsibility.” Names lasted. Or at least until somebody from the farm corrected me.
It leaned even harder against me, nearly knocking me sideways. For something covered in fluff, it had the structural integrity of a refrigerator.
I straightened. “Watch it. You’re going to make me fall.” I wrinkled my nose at its strong animal smell. Weirdly enough, it didn’t hit me as hard as yesterday. Maybe I was getting used to it.
“Name, name, name…” I tapped a finger against my chin. “Oh, you’re definitely a Theodore.”
The alpaca blinked.
“Oh yeah. Theodore,” I repeated thoughtfully. “Theo for short. You have very strong Theo energy. Sweet. Slightly needy. Completely convinced everybody wants to hug you.” Also the sort of guy who’d text “You home?” three minutes after leaving.
Theo hummed again, sounding absurdly pleased with himself. Looked like I’d nailed it.
Bandit, seemingly jealous, attempted to nibble Theo’s ear. Friendship, in goat language, involved low-level harassment.
Theo ignored him. Either he was remarkably patient, or he’d simply accepted this was his life now.
“You know,” I said, looking from one to the other, “I’ve known you guys less than two days, and you’re already becoming emotionally exhausting.” Which, now that I thought about it, might actually have said more about me than them.
Theo responded by pressing his head even more firmly against my shoulder.
“Yeah,” I muttered, smiling despite myself. “You are impossible.” Which, unfortunately, seemed to be exactly my type lately.
A nearby hay bale looked surprisingly comfortable.
I wobbled over, my legs feeling like they were filled with cement, and lowered myself onto it with considerably less grace than I’d intended.
I felt like I was in the body of an eighty-year-old.
Every limb protested the movement. If anyone had filmed that descent, it would’ve qualified as interpretive dance inspired by muscle failure.
“Ow.” Every muscle complained. I hadn’t noticed how tired I was until my butt hit the hay. And now, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get back up.
Bandit wandered over, gave me one thoughtful look, and then settled down a few feet away with a long, satisfied sigh. He was more like a dog than a goat, that one.
Theo bounded over too and immediately pressed himself against my shoulder, nudging me with his head and demanding more scratches.
“If you try to sit on me, we’re going to have words,” I said, trying—and failing—to push him off.
I tried again, putting more effort into it. I took a breath and coughed, something tickling the back of my throat.
“Great. I think I inhaled some of your fur.”
Eww.
I spat on the ground.
Nope. The fur was still lodged in my throat.
Was I about to get up and freak out?
No.
I was just too tired to care.
I looked around the pen. “You know…” Bandit blinked up at me. Theo continued existing directly in my personal space while Daisy—my new name for the smaller alpaca—watched us from a few feet away. “I think you guys might actually be the least judgmental audience I’ve had in years.”
Daisy sneezed.