Page 32
A sound rips out of his chest. It starts as a breathless wheeze, escalating instantly into a full, chest-deep howl. Cole drops his forehead against the steering wheel, his shoulders shaking so hard the entire car vibrates.
“A petting zoo,” he gasps, struggling to drag oxygen into his lungs. “You brought me to a petting zoo.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt. “I called ahead. They specifically assured me they have a large population of goats.”
He throws his head back against the headrest, swiping a hand over his face. Tears of mirth actually gather in the corners of his eyes. “You’re a menace. You’re mocking my trauma.”
“I’m helping you face your fears.” I push my door open. “Are you coming, or do you need a minute to mentally prepare yourself?”
He kills the engine and vaults out of the car.
The place is nearly deserted this late in the afternoon, just a teenager in a faded polo shirt manning a kiosk who hands us two paper cups full of alfalfa pellets. The air smells like sweet hay, damp earth, and ocean salt blowing in from the coast.
We lean against a wooden rail. A tiny white goat with knobby knees props its front hooves on the bottom rung, stretching its neck through the slats. It snuffles my knuckles, its velvety upper lip seeking out the pellets in my palm.
Cole stands beside me, watching the animal chew. “Barnaby was bigger. Meaner. He possessed a chaotic aura.”
“This one looks pretty vicious.” I let the goat nibble a pellet off my flat palm.
Cole shifts his weight, his shoulder brushing mine. “I think you just wanted an excuse to see me get headbutted.”
“I’d never pass up the opportunity.”
He chuckles, a low sound that settles deep in my stomach. He feeds a handful of alfalfa to a spotted goat pushing its way to the front of the herd, completely unbothered when the animal aggressively starts chewing on the hem of his dark button-up shirt. He just gently pries the fabric free, patient.
We spend two hours wandering the dirt paths. We don’t talk about the circus. We don’t talk about the upcoming shows or the act. We argue over which alpaca looks the most arrogant. He tells me a long, ridiculous story about a mechanic in Reno who tried to trade him a stolen motorcycle for a set of throwing knives.
It feels normal. Easy. Two things my life hasn’t been since I was a child.
When the teenager flickers the floodlights to signal closing time, Cole drives us into the nearest coastal town. We find a seafood shack built on stilts right over the water. The paint peels off the wooden siding, and the neon sign buzzes with a faulty connection, but the smell of fried butter and garlic spilling out the open windows is incredible.
We grab a booth on the back deck. The ocean churns a few yards below the floorboards, dark and restless.
A waitress drops a basket of fried oysters, blackened shrimp, and hushpuppies between us, along with two bottles of local lager. I pull a hushpuppy apart, letting the steam escape into the cool night air.
Cole peels the label off his beer bottle. He watches me take a bite, his dark eyes tracking the movement of my jaw.
“Did you grow up here?” he asks, leaning his elbows on the sticky wooden table. “South Carolina?”
I chew the fried dough, swallowing carefully. The fortress walls automatically rise in my brain. But then I look at his face. The genuine curiosity. The complete lack of entitlement.
“Tennessee.”
“Tennessee,” he repeats. “Mountains or city?”
“Suburbs. A lot of identical houses with perfectly manicured lawns.” I drag a French fry through a puddle of cocktail sauce. I don’t elaborate. I don’t mention the cedar-paneled study or the shoeboxes.
Cole doesn’t push. He taps his thumb against the neck of his bottle, taking a slow sip. He accepts the boundary the second I draw it.
I study the sharp lines of his face. “You never mention anything about your childhood.”
He lowers the beer. A beat of silence stretches between us, interrupted by the crash of the waves against the wooden pilings beneath our feet.
“No,” he agrees quietly. “I don’t.”
“Small town?”
“Commune. Up north.” He meets my gaze, the humor stripped away, leaving something dark and jagged in his eyes. “A place that’s not easy to leave. El got us out. The rest is a long story requiring whiskey, not beer.”
