practically hear his head and stomach laughing at him, but he was starting to feel panic set in and he didn’t want to stick around for it to blow out of control.
Control. Ha. What a joke. “Um, shoes?”
“I think outside, maybe? I feel like we...”
“Danced barefoot on your porch.”
“With a goat.”
He started laughing because he could kind of remember that, in a fuzzy unreal way. But it had been real. He’d gotten drunk, danced barefoot with a woman whose name he didn’t know, a goat at their feet, then apparently had forgettable sex.
This was a pretty epic premidlife crisis if he did say so himself. In fact, if he told anyone who knew him any of that, they wouldn’t believe him. Not for a second.
He followed her out of her room, through a little hallway and into a bright kitchen. It was full of stainless steel equipment, spools of ribbon and herbs hanging from the exposed beam rafters above.
The house itself looked cozy and well lived-in, but a little worse for the wear, much like his parents’ own century-old farmhouse.
She opened her front door and stepped into the bright sunshine of the morning. She used her arm to shield her eyes as she stepped outside and he followed, already squinting.
He found his shoes and tried not to lose his tenuous grasp of his volatile stomach as he bent over to pick them up.
From the front of her house, he couldn’t see her goat operation, but he could hear their sounds in the distance.
So. Damn. Weird.
“Well, you know, thanks for the commiseration.”
“Yeah, yeah, you too.”
She still had her arm over her face. Against his will his eyes were drawn to her chest; the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra was quite obvious.
Seriously how could he not remember having sex with her? Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe the condom wrapper was a fluke. Maybe...
He pushed the thoughts away. Didn’t matter. Last night was the fluke. His one and only foray into self-pity and irresponsible behavior. It was a blip, had to be, and he needed to be on his merry way.
He patted his pockets, then remembered he didn’t have a car there. It was still sitting in the Shack’s parking lot, along with hers.
“Huh,” she said, clearly realizing the same thing. She let out a gusty sigh. “I guess I’ll call Dan so we can go get our cars.” She moved to step back inside, the storm door squeaking in its frame. “I’ll get you some water. And some toast?”
“Toast sounds...edible.”
She nodded and disappeared. Charlie stayed on the porch, taking a seat on the railing and slowly pulling on his shoes.
So he had to have the awkward morning after without even remembering the sex. Cruel and unusual punishment. And a really good reminder that he was not the kind of guy who got rewarded for being irresponsible.
He only ever got punished for it. Of course, he’d been punished by responsibility too. And with a hangover threatening to kill him, he didn’t have the energy to figure out what that meant.
* * *
MEG JUMPED WHEN the toaster popped, then cursed because thirty-two-year-old Meg was a total wimp when it came to hangovers.
She was about 65 percent sure she was dying. And 35 percent sure she was going to die of embarrassment if she had to serve...so and so...toast on her porch.
She didn’t even know his name.
Hanging her head in shame, she pulled the toast out of the toaster and dropped it onto the paper plates she’d retrieved. It would be at least half an hour before the cab got here.
Bully for her.
Unfortunately she had to face the guy. She brought the plates of toast out to the porch, handed him one, then put the other on her swinging love seat. Another trip to the kitchen and she retrieved two bottles of water.
“The cab should be here in about twenty. Hopefully.”
He nodded. “Thanks. For that. And for this.” He held up the toast and then took a careful bite. She guzzled some water and they sat in silence, only the sounds of insects and goats in the air.
A pretty spring morning, and she needed to get to work before the cab got here, but first she had to feel human. Or at least like her head wasn’t going to explode every time she moved.
After an awkward silent breakfast, Meg forced herself to stand and smile. “Um, so, I need to go milk the goats.”
“Milk the...? Right.”
“You can come watch if you’re curious.” She wasn’t sure where the offer came from. It would have made more sense to ask his name. But he hadn’t asked hers. So either he knew it and she was the sole uninformed participant, or he didn’t want to know hers. Which meant she didn’t need to know his. In fact, the less she knew about him, the better.
Fantastic idea inviting him to watch you milk the goats, then, yeah?
“Sure.”
She tried to smile at his agreement and not hate him for following her. Although hate was too strong a word. She didn’t hate him. Surprisingly she didn’t even hate herself. Sure, this was embarrassing and uncomfortable and stupid, but she’d done a lot worse. And in about fifteen minutes it would all be over.
Or so she hoped.
She went inside while he waited on the porch. She sped through changing into jeans and a sweatshirt and tried to ignore that that guy existed. But the sooner she got her goats milked and him out of here, the sooner that could be accomplished.
She went back outside, and there he was. She walked down the porch steps, realizing she hadn’t grabbed socks, but was too tired and nauseated to care. Besides, he was following her; there was no way she was turning around.
She collected the containers from her sanitation station outside the barn, then shoved her bare feet into the work boots she kept outside the doors.
Her stomach was still sloshing, her head still pounding, but the goats didn’t care. That was why she loved them. They needed her to be responsible. To do something the same way every day. It kept her on the right path. So, even with last night’s slipup, she hadn’t totally screwed herself and her life over.
She entered the barn with a shadow for the first time ever. What was she supposed to call him? Ugh, she didn’t want to call him anything. So she talked him through the process of milking: bringing the goat to the stand, offering it grain, cleaning, milking.
He watched, asked a few questions, and it was almost comfortable. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, talking about goat milking and the soap she made tabled some of the weirdness between them.
Just as she was loading up the containers to be refrigerated, a honk sounded from out front.
“If you go ahead and meet him, I’ll be there in a second.”
He nodded and she took the milk to storage, then hurried inside her house from the back to find some socks and shoes.
She walked to the cab, sliding her purse over her shoulder. A few more awkwardly silent moments and this would all be over. She would probably never see the guy again, and she could maybe even convince herself it had been a figment of her imagination.
Fall down seven times. Get up eight. How many times had Grandma said that to her? And yes, Meg was pretty sure she’d exceeded seven, but as long as she kept getting up, she’d be okay. Getting up was the only option.
Besides, she had some people to prove wrong. People who’d never have to know about this lapse in judgment.