Page 20 of It's Always Sonny

MILLIE: Whatever. You secretly love them.

PARKER: I really don’t, but you tell yourself whatever you need to so you feel better about getting alpaca poop on your limited edition Golden Goose sneakers.

I’m fine with animals. I like that they’re alive on this earth and everything. As long as they keep their stinky, shedding bodies at least two feet away from me at all times, we’re good.

The farm is beautiful, in a Sweet Home Alabama way, and the walk is good for clearing my head. When I get to the animal barn, I don’t see Millie, but I do see the other therapist she works with, Linda.

Technically, she’s kind of my therapist, too.

My friend Rusty is talking to the older woman, and when he hears me, his face flushes a deep red.

I wonder if she’s technically kind of Rusty’s therapist, too …

“Oh, hey, Parker. Did you come to see the new goats?” Rusty unlocks the security gates to let me in.

“You know I didn’t. Ew.”

Linda laughs. She’s probably in her mid-sixties with a short white-blonde bob and wrinkles from a lifetime of laughing. She’s ultra-maternal, not that I have much experience with the concept.

But she has a way of getting me to open up and getting me to feel good about doing it, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.

As much as I like her, though, that boundary is always there. She’s my therapist, not my friend, not a mother figure. She’s great at her job, but if I weren’t paying her, she wouldn’t be in my life.

So I pay her.

“Hi Linda,” I say.

“Parker,” she says warmly. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” I say. “I’m helping with a family reunion while Anita is out of town, so I thought I’d kill some time and catch up with Millie.”

Rusty has opened the pens, and baby animals flock around us. I back up and dodge them. My shoes are too pretty for their hair.

But then Louis the llama (technically a llapaca—a llama-alpaca hybrid) comes over and stands by me and I relax a little. I love Louis, even if he’ll be taller than me soon. He’s as cool as a secret service agent and always matches my energy in a way that calms me. He’s also floofy, unimposing, and he doesn’t shed, all of which endears him to me.

The goats, on the other hand, drive me nuts.

Rusty bends down to play with a goat, and Linda squats next to him.

“That was sweet of you to take on the extra work of a family reunion,” Linda says to me.

“I’m happy to,” I say. “I love events, so this will be a fun break.”

“I can’t imagine hosting people being a break,” Rusty says. He’s letting the baby goats jump all over him. There are new goats since I was last here, and they’re even squattier and cuter than the “teenage” goats.

Rusty’s an introvert, like I am, and by that I mean that he’s a reserved introvert who seems to beat himself up if he says the wrong thing. He displays a quiet confidence in his work, like I try to, but our similarities end there. Rusty consults with Jane & Co. doing graphic design, and I’ve seen him in enough situations to know that he avoids conflict at all costs, even if he’s right.

If I know I’m right, I dig in my heels and fight to the bitter end.

Unless I’m talking to my parents.

We’re all paradoxes, okay? Don’t pretend otherwise.

Three tiny goats come out of the barn. Two of them look like best friends already, walking and occasionally hopping awkwardly into the other, but the third is all by himself. His front legs are bent above the hooves, and he’s hobbling out on the bent part. He looks almost like he’s walking on his knees. Except, goats don’t walk on their knees.

He’s gray with black on his head and hooves, and he just keeps army crawling on his weak, wobbly legs.

The center of my chest grows hot. “What’s wrong with that goat?” I ask Rusty.

---