Page 26 of Everything You Hate
“I’m sorry,” I manage, pressing myself against the truck. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”
“You exist on his property.” Dean doesn’t take his eyes off the goose. “That’s enough.”
Noodle hisses again, louder this time, and takes a menacing step forward. Dean takes a matching step back, and I feel the truck shift as he leans against it beside me. We’re shoulder to shoulder now, staring down an angry fifteen-pound ball of feathers and rage.
I shoot him a sideways glance while keeping one eye on the bird. “What happened to ‘walk toward the house. He won’t bite you’?”
“I lied. Henry!” he calls toward the house. “Call off your damn bird!”
The screen door bangs open, and a man steps onto the porch, drying his hands on a dish towel.
“Noodle.” His voice is easy, unbothered. “Enough.”
The goose gives me one last look, then turns and waddles off toward the barn.
“He does that.” The man comes down the steps, tucking the towel into his back pocket. Hair gone mostly gray, blue-gray eyes with deep creases at the corners. “My late wife, Lana, brought him home as a gosling. He’s outlived his welcome by about nineteen years.”
“Then why keep him?”
“Because she brought him home. She loved him, so now I love him for her.” He extends a hand. “Henry Haven.”
“Scarlett Crawford.”
“Welcome to our home, Scarlett.” His handshake is firm, calloused, then he glances past me at Dean, still leaning against the truck. “You let a goose tree you against your own vehicle?”
“I was managing the situation.”
“Sure you were.” Henry claps him on the shoulder, and Dean lets it happen. Doesn’t shrug it off, doesn’t step away. It’s the first time all day I’ve seen anyone touch him without him going rigid. “Well, both of you come on inside. Wren’s done something with a pie that’ll make you cry.”
I follow Henry up the porch steps, my heels catching between the boards, and Dean falls into step behind me. The screen door creaks open, and the smell hits me full force—something rich and herby and delicious.
Inside, the kitchen is chaos. Steam rising from three pots. Counters buried under bowls and cutting boards. A radio playing something twangy underneath the human noise—shouting, laughing, someone singing along badly and without shame. Doug is already underfoot, nose the floor for scraps.
“Ah, you’re here.” Mimi appears with a wooden spoon and a streak of something red across her jacket. “Everybody shut up for a second. This is Scarlett. Malcolm’s reporter, yes, but she’s got spine and a decent sense of humor, so we’re keeping her. Scarlett, this is everyone.”
She points the spoon around the room like a baton.
“Shea, running the kitchen like the general she is. Piper, hiding behind that book. Wren, who is supposed to be setting the table instead of staring at that damn phone. Colter, who is somehow both helping and making everything worse.”
“I resent that,” Colter says, coming into the kitchen juggling an armful of potatoes.
“You resemble that,” Wren corrects, not looking up from her phone.
The tall woman at the stove—Shea—turns and gives me a warm smile. She wears her light brown hair in a practical ponytail with a dish towel over one shoulder. “Ignore all of them.” She points her spoon at a cutting board. “Can you chop?”
“I can chop.”
“Good. Rescue those potatoes from Colter and dice them up.”
“Hey,” Colter protests.
And that’s it. That’s the whole vetting process. She hands me a knife and turns back to her pot, and the relief of having something to do with my hands nearly buckles my knees.
At lunch today, Malcolm sat me at a table set with crystal and china and asked about my follower demographics between courses.
Here, a woman I’ve known for forty seconds has handed me a knife.
I chop potatoes.
