Page 111 of Our Long Days
Messy.
Inside and out.
CHAPTER FORTY
dexter
Something is wrong.
It’s quiet. Still.
The air lacks its usual buzz and fever. There’s no goat waiting to ram my shins when I step out of the truck or a woman with a dazzling smile reading a book from the chair on my porch.
Florence’s appointment ended an hour ago, and she should be home. There was no text or missed call from her when the team called it a day. If we’re not together, she’s blowing up my phone with daily updates. Yesterday’s text thread is a stark contrast to today’s.
Florence: When winter arrives, the goats are moving indoors.
Florence: Hurry up and come home so we can play Scrabble.
Florence: Can you build me a bookshelf?
Florence: *GIF of manchopping wood*
Her silence is a bad sign.
There’s a dusting of hay on the porch steps, and following it through the cabin leads me to her.
Florence zips around the kitchen, slamming cupboards and drawers. Two heads peek out from behind the island, eyeing me cautiously, bells tinkling. Her own personal guard goats. Vincent bleats at me as I make my way over, but Florence is so consumed by whatever she’s doing, she doesn’t notice me until my arms envelop her.
“Hey, Trouble,” I murmur into her neck.
She’s stiff as cardboard, voice tight. “You’re home early.”
“The team knocked it out of the park with two hours to spare. We ordered pizza to celebrate. You were missed, but you’ll get to see it at the opening ceremony next week.”
Wiggling out of my hold, she continues fussing with the contents of my cupboards. Without looking at her face, I can tell she’s flustered, and something tells me it has everything to do with the appointment.
I unbuckle my work belt and settle onto a stool. “Are you making dinner?”
Florence pauses, fisting two cans of soup. She finally looks in my direction, brows scrunched tight and lips pursed. “I was…and then I started reorganizing the cupboards. Sorry, I should’ve asked.”
“Nah, have at it. Let’s order takeout. I’m beat.” I pull out my phone. “What do you want?”
The slam of metal hitting the oak countertop jerks my attention away. The goats jump before collapsing on their sides.
“Oh, shit!” Florence cries and presses the heels of her palms into her eyes. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. Just let me cook for you.”
“You don’t need to cook for me.”
“I have to do something.” Her face contorts. “Please.”
Her tense features soften when I open my arms. “Come here.”
Gait slow, she ambles over and collapses into me.
“You want to talk about it?” I mumble into her hair.
She jerks her head left and right and tightens her hold of my shirt. “Maybe later. This is a nice distraction.”
