Season 1 - Chapter One

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"You're fired."

You wouldn't think that two words could shatter your world, but these two did. Not just my world, but my Mom's world as well.

The fateful words were spoken by Sharon, the manager of The Lucky Goose, a failed themed restaurant that only served goose. It was a nightmare, and Sharon, with her hairstyle from a 70's Better Living magazine and a nasal snarl, was its nightmare queen.

I was on a hard, plastic chair, the kind that somehow had bumps and ridges everywhere you didn't want them, in Sharon's office. I stared across her overstuffed desk into her bloodshot eyes as she destroyed my world. I wasn't sure how I'd gotten here. I had done well in school. I had gotten a degree. I was going to be a teacher back before everyone (apparently) couldn't afford them. Now, the best I could do was this...serving in a goose-themed restaurant, and now even that was gone.

Well, going.

"What?"

You always hope you'll have something badass to say at times like this, but in my case, I just ended up stuttering and gasping just like I always feared I would.

And here I am, thinking my awkward teenage phase ended in my teens.

"F-I-R-E-D," Sharon had the decency to literally spell out for me. "Edwina, did you hear me?"

'Edwina.' I hate my name. It sounds regal and formal and — frankly — like an asshole I'd rather not be.

"It's Eddie," I said.

Sharon rolled her eyes so hard I was worried her cheap fake eyelashes would fall off. "Edwina, honey, you're fired. Would calling you 'Eddie' really help?"

I gritted my teeth.

"Sure would, Shar-Shar."

Her ruby red lips pulled into a sharp frown.

"That's NOT my name — "

I didn't let her finish. "Yeah, it's annoying when people screw up your name, isn't it?"

The frown deepened, stretching her spray-tanned features into a grotesque approximation of Grumpy Cat.

"Clear out your locker and leave. NOW."

It's funny, looking back on this now — on who I was then. There are a lot of things that are still true, but a lot has changed. I can't help but wonder what the girl I was then would think of who I am now.

Can't help but fear that she'd be disappointed in me.

That said, one of the things about me that hasn't changed is that I'm a people pleaser. I always have been; so, when Shar-Shar told me to stand, I stood. I was about to do my walk of shame to the staff room and clear the few things I had out of my tiny locker when I realized what Shar-Shar was not saying.

"What about my tips?"

Shar-Shar carefully avoided my eyes, suddenly fascinated with the papers scattered on her desk. It was clear she'd been hoping I wouldn't remember to ask about it.

"Hm?"

"My tips," I repeated more forcefully. Almost all the business we did at the Goose was on credit, meaning the majority of my wages from the past two weeks were sitting in internet-land, waiting to be added to a paycheck I might not get. "You still owe me the money I made."

Shar-Shar sighed.

"We're not doing that."

"That's not fair!" I hated how petulant I sounded, but it was all I could do to stop myself from swearing at her.

"Life isn't fair, honey. This is the industry."

I stood, frozen in anger and fear. I knew the restaurant industry was shady, but somehow I never thought it would come around to bite me in the ass. Naïve, I know, but I have a bad habit of believing the best about people. Even people like Shar-Shar. When she got the picture that I wasn't going to leave quietly, she continued.

"Look, Eddie, there's really no easy way to say this — the Goose has been losing money for years..."

I stared at her blankly.

"You don't say."

Shar-Shar nodded solemnly. "Yes. Despite our unique hook and impeccable goose dishes, the market has changed. The truth is, we're broke. Done. Our goose is..."

"Don't say it — "

"...Cooked. So, there aren't tips for you or anyone else. You can sue if you want to, but there isn't much to sue for. Besides," Shar-Shar had the nerve to flick her bloodshot eyes up and down, appraising me like a cut of goose, "I doubt you can afford a lawyer."

I was acutely aware of my worn-out serving flats, my twice-repaired glasses, and the cheap over-the-counter make-up that I wore (despite still not really knowing how to make it work for me). But I work hard, and I'm proud of how hard I work. In that moment though, Sharon made me feel cheap. Poor. Worthless. And she was right; with Mom's medical bills stacking up, we were barely staying afloat, let alone well-off enough to afford a lawyer. I had exactly four dollars in my wallet, maybe fifty more in my bank account.

"This is illegal," I said, increasingly desperate.

"So go ahead and sue. This place'll be a Chic-fil-A by the end of the month. Do us both a favor: get out."

I could hear my Mom's voice in my head, telling me to quietly thank her for the opportunity, maybe ask to use her as a reference one day. I opened my mouth to do the right thing, but the smug look on Shar-Shar's face gave me pause.

"I hope you burn in Hell, Shar-Shar."

Sharon laughed in my face.

"Honey, I manage a failing restaurant that only sells goose. I AM in Hell."

***

Outside The Lucky Goose, it was raining, because of course it was. I thought longingly of the umbrella I'd stared at on my way out the door this morning but had inexplicably decided against, then stepped into the pouring rain. I could feel the thin cotton of my favorite sweater soak through almost immediately.

Great, I thought, now I'm cold and broke. I began making my way toward home, avoiding the biggest puddles and swearing inventively at the cars that splashed me. Nights like this, the city felt empty; it was a rare feeling in a city as large as Chicago, but the rain seemed to drive everyone away. It created a crushing sense of isolation amongst the towering buildings of glass and steel. My Mom and I had lived in or near this city for my entire life. Growing up in the suburbs, I'd never even considered how expensive living here could be. My father fled the scene before I was born, so Mom did all the heavy lifting, but it wasn't until her diagnosis that I realized how much she'd done for us. We probably should have moved somewhere cheaper, but her health was so touch-and-go, the idea of starting again seemed impossibly risky. Or maybe I was just scared to leave what I'd known for so long.

My stomach grumbled aggressively, and I realized I hadn't eaten yet today. It's an easy thing to forget when trying to get Mom to and from her appointments, particularly when she can barely keep any food down anymore. I was counting on a staff meal at the Goose, but it's hard to ask for a doggy bag when you're storming out in righteous fury. Squinting through the sheets of rain, I double-checked where I was; one of the city's least-worst hot dog stands was only a few minutes out of my way. It was a dumb way to spend four bucks, but at that point, I didn't care.

As I forged on toward my disappointing breakfast/lunch/dinner hot dog, I couldn't help but run through my usual list of regrets — the type of questions that linger on the edge of your mind when you try to fall asleep or pay a bill: why did I get a degree in teaching? Why didn't someone shake me when I was optimistically talking about making a difference in kids' lives and scream 'NOT IF YOU CAN'T GET A JOB TO DO IT' and then maybe slap me a few times until I went into finance or tech or something? Hell, if I'd become a lawyer, I could've sued Sharon and the Goose myself.

The thought warmed me slightly against the chill, wind, and rain.

I made idle small talk with the hot dog vendor, Rick, who looked nice and cozy in his little shack. I didn't envy his long hours alone, but he seemed content. He handed me the dog, I gave him the remains of my meager wealth, and I loaded up the bun with everything he had: if I was going to eat gross, I was going all-in. I thanked Rick, tipping him the change (I'd be damned if I was going to stiff someone on a tip on that night of all nights) and held the disgustingly delicious meal up to my face...completely missing both the speeding garbage truck AND the massive puddle that were directly in front of me.

In a cascade of water, I ended up wearing a very fashionable bib of relish, mustard, and ketchup as the rest of the dog was carried away into the gutter. I was left holding a soggy bun and little else.

I know they say, 'Don't cry over spilled milk,' but no one mentioned lost hot dogs, jobs, and financial well-being, so I didn't feel too bad about the tears that started to form amidst the rain. It was a night that truly couldn't get any worse.

"Hey, kid."

Which, of course, was when Dylan Zane came back into my life, with a crooked smile and an opportunity I couldn't refuse.

He sat astride a vintage Harley wearing a worn leather jacket and jeans that left nothing to the imagination. I hadn't seen him since we broke up, years back.

I hated the way my body still responded to that smile.

As if he could read my mind, he tossed me a helmet.

"Get on; it looks like you could use a drink. And maybe a napkin."

I looked down at my ruined sweater, my ruined life, and shrugged.

"Day can't get any worse. Why not?" Straddling his bike, I reluctantly put my arms around him, feeling his impressive, familiar abs through his jacket. I still remembered kissing those abs, teasing him on my way to more pleasurable places. I shook my head to clear the memory away, but it wasn't easy with the physical reminder literally in my arms. Plus, it had been a while. What did I have to lose?

He barely waited until I was settled before gunning the motor and tearing off into the night.

***

Dylan Zane. What can I tell you about Dylan Zane?

I guess I should start at the beginning. I met Dylan Zane when I was seventeen. We didn't get a lot of new kids in our school, so his appearance midway through the year was a pleasant surprise. Until Dylan, I'd kissed exactly three boys and wasn't really sure it was worth doing. Then Dylan, all swagger and charm, showed me what I'd been missing.

Turns out, I'd been missing a lot.

My best friend Amara still teases me about how fast I fell for Dylan's charms: as a straight-A student, I usually didn't hang out with the kids who talked back and skipped class, but then again, those students didn't have a motorcycle, tattoos, or a tongue piercing. Being a year older, he was a gateway to a more adult world.

And he was hot.

But the problem with Dylan — well, one of the problems with Dylan — was that he was equal parts handsome (in a dangerous way) and smart. A sharp jaw, a crooked smile that invited trouble, brown eyes that always seemed to be appraising and calculating, figuring out the next angle...you felt as though you were a puzzle he was eager to solve. And when my hormones were in full swing, I'd hoped he was just as good at solving other adolescent mysteries.

Turned out, he was.

And so, while things hadn't ended well between us (his fault, not mine), after the day I'd had, I didn't really care. I wanted those eyes on me again.

Those lips.

Those hands.

From the minute we sat down at the bar, I decided we were going to sleep together.

He just didn't know it yet.

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