Charlie laughs again, deep and full of humor. Gretchen’s body zings with that sensation that’s like the gotcha euphoria she got after making him blush, except way stronger. She can’t decide if the feeling is welcome or traitorous, considering he’s laughingat her.
“Jesus,” he says, bowing his head. “Wish I knew you were afraid of goats. Could have just sicced the herd on you when you showed up yesterday. You would’ve been off my property like—” Charlie snaps his fingers.
Gretchen grabs the gate and swings it open. As soon as she steps inside the pasture, a black goat with a bulging belly attempts to shove its way out, prompting a still-laughing Charlie to lunge forward and slam the gate closed. “If you let them escape, you’re paying to replace the neighbor’s azaleas,” he warns, working the latch and ensuring it’s secure.
But Gretchen isn’t listening, because other than the apparent Houdini of the bunch, still staring at the gate as if she’s hoping it might open again, all of the goats now have their weird eyes on her. And they are coming her way with alarming speed. She can imagine it now: bleeding out in the bright green grass after being gored by fifteen dairy goats (or, fourteen, rather, because the one with the tennis balls on its horns won’t gore her so much as smack her around a little) as they stand over her, staring down at her withtheir eerie rectangular pupils. Gretchen’s spine goes ramrod straight as the herd surrounds her. Where is Everettnow? He should be here to help her. It’s in his best interests that she remains alive, isn’t it?
The goats jockey for position, probably all wanting to be first in line to impale her. Gretchen blames her hubris; she’s flown too close to the bullshit-artist sun. A square-toothed mouth comes at her, and she squeezes her eyes closed, unwilling to witness the carnage. But instead of the slicing bite she expects, there’s a tug at her sleeve. And then one at the hem of her jacket. And at the leg of her overalls. And then her other leg. And the back of her jacket, and—
“Ahhh!” she screams when she opens her eyes again and sees several goats gently nibbling at her clothing. “They’re eating me!”
In response to the commotion, the two—oh no, there aretwoof them?!—giant white herding dogs dance around the gathered goats, barking merrily as if cheering on their wards’ murderous rampage. Gretchen screams again. “Charlie!Help!”
But there’s no answer from Charlie. She looks over to where he’s using one of the fence posts to remain upright as his laughter shakes his body.
The goat with the tennis balls on its horns manages to open one of her jacket pockets and tries to shove its entire face inside. The others notice and want in on the action, and Gretchen is quickly in the middle of a shoving match between several hip-height animals who clearly consider her a necessary civilian casualty in their battle. An unexpected push at her leg—the one with the injured ankle—knocks her off-balance, and Gretchen finds herself on the ground for the third time in less than twenty-four hours.
The laughter stops abruptly, sliced by a panicked shout. “Shit! Acorn!”
Charlie must have sprinted over, because he’s there in seconds. Gretchen’s covered her head like they taught her to do during tornado drills in school, but she turns her face up enough to see him part the goats like he’s Moses and they’re the Red Sea. He lifts her by the arms to standing.
“You should have warned me they were bloodthirsty!”
“They weren’t after your blood,” Charlie insists, although the way he looks her up and down frantically as he checks for damage makes the statement less convincing. Then his gaze catches on her side, and his lips press together in vexation. “They were after this.” He reaches out and pulls a plastic bag full of almonds from her jacket pocket.
“I found them in the pantry when I was getting my cereal. Thought I might get hungry later,” she mumbles.
“Well, you happened to choose one of their favorite snacks.” His face goes softer, and he opens the bag. Charlie grabs a few almonds and holds them out to her. “Why don’t you give some to them? Show them there are no hard feelings.”
“No thanks. Therearehard feelings.”
He rolls his eyes and grabs her hand, turning it upright and prying open her fingers until her palm is flat. The almonds transfer, along with a bit of warmth from his skin. Then, to Gretchen’s surprise, Charlie wraps his fingers around her wrist and extends her arm out toward the closest goat.
“Keep your palm flat so your fingers don’t get in the way.” His voice is low, gentle. “They won’t hurt you. They’re sweet girls. Yes, even you, Thistle.” He runs his free hand down the spine ofa dark brown, enormously pregnant goat that’s attempting to nab the rest of the bag out of his hand.
The goats surround Gretchen’s outstretched hand, and the nuts are gobbled up in an instant. It tickles, and she lets out a yelp mixed with a laugh in response.
“There you go,” Charlie says with a smile that’s even warmer than the emerging sun. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.”
Gretchen huffs, offended. “I wasn’t afraid.”
“Oh, my mistake,” he says. “Guess you’ve got this under control, then.” He drops the rest of the almonds in her hand and strolls away, whistling, as the goats once again close in on her.
“Charlie... Charlie, no, wait!” Her attempt to sprint after him is much more of a frantic zombie shuffle, the goats and dogs all following as if she’s leading the world’s oddest and most chaotic parade.
12
The next morning feels like déjà vu—it’s a knock at the door that wakes her, and Charlie’s voice, deep and gruff from overnight disuse, commanding her to get up. There are important differences, though. This time, when she opens her eyes, she doesn’t have a ghost staring back at her; Everett presumably kept his word and stayed out of her room. Also, this morning she’s aware of a slight ache in her ankle as she attempts to move it.
“I’m up, I’m up,” she says, moving cautiously.
But when she opens the door, Charlie has disappeared. In his place are three paper Walmart bags sitting on the floor. “What’s this?” Gretchen calls across the hall, assuming Charlie’s still within earshot. The house isn’t that big, and he couldn’t have gotten too far in the last minute.
“Just some stuff,” he replies cryptically from somewhere within his bedroom, the door to which is open just enough that a crack of sunrise shines through. It projects a glowing line onto thehallway’s old hardwood, like someone took a highlighter to the floor.
She brings the bags inside her room and drops them on the bed. The first contains a pair of bright yellow rain boots. The next has a pack of six plain white cotton T-shirts like the one she borrowed yesterday, but a size smaller; a few pairs of women’s crew socks; and a compression brace for her ankle. The last bag includes some utility gloves like she’s seen Charlie and Lori wearing, and...
Did Charlie Waybill seriously buy Gretchen three bulk packs of underwear?With more moisture-wicking power!according to the package.
