Page 112 of The Goat in the Bedroom
Coming home from Edinburgh felt like returning to a different universe. One where Vincent and Holly had apparently staged a coup in our absence.
“Oh my god,” Artie said, standing in the doorway of our house.
The living room looked like a goat tornado had hit it. Couch cushions were on the floor, one of them thoroughly chewed. Several plants had been knocked over, dirt everywhere. A roll of toilet paper had been dragged from the bathroom and shredded across the entire space. And in the middle of it all, Vincent and Holly sat on our coffee table like tiny dictators surveying their kingdom.
“Vincent Van Goat,” I said sternly. “Holly Goatlightly. What did you do?”
Vincent turned his head away from me with such deliberate disdain that Artie burst out laughing.
“They're giving us the cold shoulder,” she said. “We abandoned them for Scotland and this is our punishment.”
Sean appeared from the kitchen, looking frazzled. “They were angels until about an hour ago. I swear. Then it's likethey sensed you were coming home and decided to express their feelings through destruction.”
“Where's Ren?” I asked.
“Hiding in your bedroom. Holly ate his shoelaces while they were still on his feet and he needed a timeout.” Sean looked at the destruction. “I was going to clean up, but then I thought you should see what your children are capable of.”
Holly bleated at him reproachfully.
“Don't you sass me, young lady,” Sean told her. “I know you're the one who figured out how to open the bathroom door.”
Vincent hopped off the coffee table and walked over to Artie, butting his head against her leg in what looked like forgiveness. But when I reached down to pet him, he dodged my hand and trotted away.
“Seriously?” I asked him. “You're mad at me?”
He bleated once and went to hide behind Artie's legs.
“I think someone's jealous that you were gone,” Artie said, scooping Vincent up. He immediately snuggled into her arms, shooting me what I swear was a triumphant look.
“Traitor,” I muttered.
Holly, not to be outdone, launched herself at my shins, demanding attention. I picked her up and she immediately started chewing on my shirt collar.
“We missed you too,” I told her.
“So,” Sean said, grinning, “how was Scotland? Did anything interesting happen?”
Artie and I exchanged a look. Everything had happened. We'd defended ourselves against Sloane's bigotry, Artie had chosen us over Team GB, we'd made love for the first time in a way that actually meant everything.
“It was good,” I said.
“Good?” Sean's eyebrows shot up. “You two are practically glowing and you're going with good?”
“Really good,” Artie amended.
“Oh my god, you totally banged,” Sean exclaimed.
“Sean,” Ren called from the bedroom. “Leave them alone.”
“I'm not leaving them alone. Look at them. They're all post-coital and glowy.”
“We're not glowy,” I protested.
“You're extremely glowy,” Sean insisted. “It's disgusting. I love it.”
After Sean and Ren left, with many promises to goat-sit again despite the destruction, we spent the rest of the day cleaning and trying to win back our goats' affection. By evening, they'd mostly forgiven us, though Vincent still insisted on sitting between us on the couch like a furry chaperone.
Monday meant back to reality. Practice was brutal—Coach was preparing us for the Sharks game on Sunday, and the rivalry meant everything had to be perfect. The Sharks were having a good season and beating them would secure our playoff spot.
