Page 41 of The Goat in the Bedroom
“He knows about it. He just pretends he doesn't because he thinks it's cute that she thinks she's being sneaky.”
“Of course he does.” Artie shook her head. “Those two are disgustingly perfect for each other.”
Ten minutes later, we were walking up to Flynn and Tempest's front door. They lived directly across the street fromus—Chris's real estate empire at work—in an almost identical house except for Tempest's collection of potted plants that had taken over the front porch.
Flynn opened the door before we could knock, already grinning. “How bad was it?”
“Our dates are currently planning to jump out of a plane together,” I said.
“Wait, what?” Tempest appeared behind Flynn, wearing pajama pants covered in tiny donkeys.
“Come in,” Flynn said, stepping aside. “This sounds like a multiple margarita story.”
Their living room was cozy chaos with manuscripts scattered on the coffee table, Flynn's playbook balanced on the arm of the couch, and Burrito Petito's toys everywhere. The donkey himself was currently asleep in his custom bed in the corner, occasionally twitching his ears.
“Okay,” Tempest said, already pulling out the blender. “Tell us everything while I make drinks.”
“They're soulmates,” Artie said. “Adrenaline-junkie soulmates who are probably going to have beautiful, death-defying babies.”
“So you successfully set each other up,” Flynn said slowly, “just not with yourselves.”
“We're so bad at dating, we're contagious,” Artie moaned, flopping back on their couch.
We spent the next hour rehashing every mortifying detail of the evening, with Flynn and Tempest alternating between sympathy and laughter. By the time we'd finished the pitcher of margaritas and demolished a pint of Tempest's “secret” cashew milk ice cream, my face hurt from laughing.
“You know what the worst part is?” Artie said, now lying with her feet in my lap while I absently rubbed her ankle. “Robwas actually perfect. Like, objectively perfect. Confident, funny, didn't care that I'm bigger than him, loves animals...”
“Teaches children's martial arts,” I added glumly.
“Fosters senior cats,” she continued.
“Called you beautiful within ten seconds of meeting you.”
“And I ruined it with shellfish violence.”
“Assault with a deadly mollusk.”
“You didn't ruin anything,” Tempest said gently. “You just weren't compatible. There's a difference.”
“I don't know,” Artie said, sitting up slightly. “I think there's something fundamentally wrong with how I interact with men. I turn into this weird, awkward, catastrophe person.”
“You're not a catastrophe,” I said. “You're just... enthusiastic.”
“I tried to pour his wine and created a flood, Gryff. That's not enthusiasm, that's a natural disaster.”
“Maybe,” Flynn said, looking directly at me with twin telepathy activated, “you just need practice being comfortable with someone you actually trust.”
Artie was quiet for a moment, then looked at me. “That's actually not a bad idea.”
My stomach dropped. I was in so much trouble.
TRUST IN ME
ARTEMIS
Tempest, ever the romance author looking for story fodder, leaned forward with that expression she got when she was analyzing relationship dynamics for her next book. “That gives me an idea.”
“Uh-oh. I think I know where this is heading.”
