Page 7 of Everything You Hate
He shuts up. Smart bird.
The Haven farm gate comes into view—wrought iron with the family name welded across the top. I turn in and follow the gravel driveway. The farm appears around the bend, red barn and white farmhouse, fields rolling down to the water. Haven land. Our land. The only piece of this island Malcolm hasn’t managed to get his hands on, and he’s tried. I pull into the gravel drive and cut the engine, but before I can get my door open, something white and furious launches itself at the truck.
Noodle.
The goose believes every vehicle is a personal insult and hits my door with enough force to rock the truck, wings spread,neck extended, beak hammering the glass. This is why all of our vehicles have a permanent dent in the side, but my brother loves the demon fowl and refuses to get rid of him.
I think he reminds Henry of Lana.
She brought Noodle home as a gosling shortly before her death. And Henry’s kept the ornery beast fed and sheltered eighteen years.
I wait. Noodle will wear himself out. He always does. Eventually.
But today he seems especially insulted. I roll my window down an inch. “Fuck off, feather duster. It’s me.”
“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off feather duster,” Captain sings.
Great. I’ll be hearing that song every night this week now.
Noodle pauses mid-beak-strike, one beady eye fixed on me through the glass. Then he goes right back to it.
Of course he does.
I open the door slowly, using it as a shield.
“Henry!” I call toward the house. “Call off your damn goose!”
No answer from the house. The front door’s open, screen swinging in the breeze, which means someone’s home. Henry’s probably out back with the sheep or down at the lower pasture. Or he’s inside ignoring me, which is equally possible.
I slide out of the truck, keeping the door between Noodle and me, and Captain takes the opportunity to launch himself out the open window and flap toward the barn with a triumphant “Fuck me sideways!” that echoes across the field.
“Thanks for the help,” I mutter.
I edge around the door, and Noodle tracks my movement. His neck is fully extended now, wings half-raised, making himself as big and terrifying as a fifteen-pound ball of feathers and rage can get.
“You and I have an understanding,” I tell him. “I don’t bother you, you don’t bother me.”
He hisses.
“Fair enough.”
I take a step toward the house. Noodle takes a step toward me. I take another step. So does he. We’re locked in this ridiculous standoff when the barn’s side door swings open, and Colter steps out, a feed bucket in one hand, Radar the German Shepherd at his heels. His sandy hair is sun-bleached at the tips, and he’s got dirt on his jeans. He takes one look at Noodle and me locked in our standoff and grins.
“Need a hand?” he calls, setting the bucket down.
“Call him off,” I say, not taking my eyes off the goose.
Colter whistles two short notes and Noodle’s head swivels toward the sound. The goose considers me for one more long, menacing moment, then waddles toward Colter like a monarch returning to court.
“You’re welcome,” Colter says, scratching Noodle’s neck. The goose closes his eyes in bliss.”If you’re looking for Dad, he’s out back with the sheep. Hazel’s with him.”
Colter’s five-year-old daughter is adorable, with her father’s sandy hair and those big blue-gray eyes that see right through you. She has every single one of the Haven men wrapped around her little finger, but my brother is especially enamored with his only grandchild. Henry would give that kid all moons in the solar system if she asked for them.
“No, I’m not looking for Henry. I need to talk to Bodhi.”
Colter’s eyebrows go up. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing urgent.” I don’t want to get into it with Colter first. He means well, but he’s the nosiest Haven, and if I tell him about the reporter now, it’ll be all over the island by lunch. “Just business stuff.”
