“…these goats are little fucking Houdinis. Griff calls me once a day at least to complain. But today they ate all my mom’s spinach and kale, so he was shouting at me when I picked up the phone.” Dylan takes a sip from the beer in his hand, shaking his head. “I drove home to calm him down. As if that would even work. And when I get there he wants me to raise the height of the fence, right? So I take a look around…”

I’ve met the two dairy goats in question. They’re wily little animals and cute as heck. Dylan loves them a lot. Maybe even more than he loves his cows.

“…and the fence is fine. So I asked Mr. Grumpy if by chance he brought a feed bucket into the goat enclosure earlier? And he’s like—‘So what if I did?’ And then I ask if it had the cover on it. And he said—‘How did you know?’” Dylan shakes his head, as if he can’t believe the stupidity. “Well, because you’re ripping me a new one even though you’re the idiot who gave those little fuckers a bucket to climb up onto and launch themselves over the fence.”

Everybody laughs a little drunkenly. There are maybe a dozen people in the living room. There’s a group on the floor passing around a small pumpkin. Someone has outfitted it with two pipes that stick out of either side. It’s a pumpkin bong.

You’re supposed to take a puff and pass it on. I never have, though. Up until last month, I’d only seen weed in movies. I’d smelled it in Dylan’s truck, without knowing what it was.

College is very educational.

My gaze snags on the couch, which is also occupied. The people seated on it aren’t listening to Dylan’s story, though, because they’re too busy making out. This wouldn't be all that interesting except there are three of them. Two girls and a guy. It hadn't occurred to me before that three people could kiss at the same time, but they seem to be managing just fine.

I can’t tear my eyes away. The view is both beautiful and complicated. The boy’s eyes are closed. I briefly spot his tongue as their lips reconfigure. His hand is up one of the girl’s shirts. And that girl has her hand on the other girl’s breast. As I watch, she passes her thumb over the nipple slowly. It’s a hard peak through the T-shirt covering it.

Okay, wow. I wouldn't have thought that would turn me on, but there you go. The truth is that a lot of things turn me on. And they always have. Ever since I turned thirteen, there’s been a raging battle between what I’m supposed to be thinking about and what I actually think about.

I really hope nobody can read minds.

Music throbs in the background while Dylan finishes his story about the goats. His mother is mad because they ate her garden greens. “And you practically can't call yourself a Vermont farmer without a nice patch of kale. What will the neighbors say?”