Page 28 of Goose

“If he ends up coming around, and if he’s not a jerk, maybe something will work out,” I said.

He held my gaze. “If a man’s character could be measured, Porter’s was as high it gets. If this guy was Porter’s best friend, and it’s pretty obvious he was, I think that’s all the endorsement I need. I’m going to say he’s not a jerk.”

“Hopefully I’ll get to find out.”

He straightened up the condiment caddy, and then brushed the crumbs from the table. About the time I expected him to get up and leave, he spoke. “When are you going to tell me what dragged you from Connecticut to California?”

I wouldn’t make a good character in a book, nor was my life’s subject matter interesting enough to make a movie. I wish I had a cool story to tell. How I escaped a violent ex, or that my parents retired and relocated to the Bahamas, leaving me searching for a new place to call home. There wasn’t a reason behind my leaving, other than I felt I needed a man in my life. A man and a little excitement.

I was just a normal girl who enjoyed doing abnormal shit.

“I told you. I needed a change,” I explained. “I just drove until I ran out of road. This was where the land ended, and the ocean started. So, I stopped.”

“You needed a change from what?”

I shrugged. “Life.”

“Just get out of a shitty relationship?”

I shook my head. “Good guess, but no.”

“Running from the law?” He chuckled.

It was also a good guess, but that wasn’t it, either. “Nope.”

“Needed a change, huh?”

“There wasn’t anything to keep me there. My dad died when I was twenty-one, and my mom was never in the picture. I stuck around for ten years, which is a heck of a lot longer than I thought I would. I think I just got tired of the cold weather. All my favorite movies were made out here, so I thought I’d come and see what all the hype was about.”

He reached across the table and touched my hand. “I’m sorry about your parents.”

George may have retired from the Marine Corps, but he still looked—and acted—the part in all respects. He was always in a hurry and he showed little emotion, other than anger. To have him act with compassion was a rarity.

“It’s okay,” I said. “My mom was a turd, and my dad had a bad liver.”

“Your father didn’t remarry?”

I shook my head. “I was the only woman in his life. He didn’t even date. At least he didn’t ever bring them home if he did. He was devoted to his work.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a locksmith.”

“What about your mother?”

I was born the daughter of a stripper with no desire to raise a child who was the product of a one-night-stand with one of her clients. After signing custody over to my father, she vanished.

“She was a stripper and a prostitute. I never really knew her. Not at all, really.”

He squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry.”

I was, too. There was nothing I could do about it, though. I often wondered how different my life might be if I was raised in a normal household by both parents.

It didn’t matter. Life happened, and I was who I was as a result. There was no changing it. My father force fed me the idea that there was a reason for everything that happened on earth. Consequently, I learned to accept life, and my actions, as being exactly what God intended.

“Were you kidding about that dry erase board thing?” I asked.

He smirked. “I don’t know, why?”