Page 55 of I'm Not Yours
“Well, when he knows I’m an astronaut, he’ll want to see me again.”
My stomach clenched again. Morgan’s father, the loser, the bottom-dwelling algae/larvae, had left Morgan’s mother when she was five. He told Leoni he was going to the store for a cherry pie and never returned. Leoni noted that he remembered to take his golf clubs, hunting gear, camping tent, expensive bike, and he cleaned out their bank account. Ever since, Morgan has dressed, almost each day, as an astronaut because her father was interested, however mildly, in space. She wants to be impressive so he’ll be impressed with her and come back and live with them again.
It breaks my heart. I hugged her again. “I want to see you every day, right here, because if I don’t see you, I don’t have a good day.”
“Yeah, I know. The kids made fun of my astronaut suit again.”
“What do they know? They’re too young to understand brilliance when they see it.”
“They think I’m weird.”
“Who cares what they think? All that matters is that you recognize that you’re wonderful and cool.” I tried not to cry for Morgan. “Your mom made peanut butter cookies because she was super mad at the bodices of the yellow, twenties-era flapper dresses. Have a couple, read your space shuttle book, and organize the pink lace drawer for me, will you?” I give Morgan jobs all the time to do. It makes her feel wanted and needed. I pay her, too.
“Okay.” She smiled at me through the dark visor. “I’ll tell you about a new design for a space shuttle I sent NASA last week. The one I worked on for about three months with all the details and about twenty pages of explanations. I think they’ll write me back.”
“They might, Morgan. As leasttheyknow brilliance when they see it.”
I tried not to let my heart squeeze too tight when I thought about the pain of abandonment that kid’s selfish father had caused her, then turned to tromp down the stairs toward Hercules.
4
“Thanks for taking me to the emergency room. I can’t say it was fun, Reece, but I’m glad I went.” I took another bite of clam chowder. Marlene’s Chowder, a restaurant located on a blue-gray river that roars into the ocean nearby, is the best in Oregon. Creamy, not too clammy, dollop of butter on the top. Add hot garlic cheese bread for dipping, and you are in clam chowder heaven.
“You inhaled a lot of sea water and I don’t think I could have slept tonight unless I knew your lungs were clear. And now we know for sure that you didn’t swallow any fish.” He grinned.
“Based on the amount of water I unwillingly swallowed, anything could have slipped down my throat, including an octopus and a treasure chest.”
He laughed. “You are a funny person, June.”
“No. I’m not.” I didn’t think I was. I was sarcastic. But funny? No. Some of the funniest people, it is said, are or were outsiders, so they see things differently. That’s me. I have never felt as if I was part of this natural club that some Americans fall into so seamlessly, as if they were born to fit in. I was born to be that odd link. But maybe that made my sarcasm funny . . .
“Yep, you are.” He winked at me.
How totally endearing. “Thank you, again, for saving my sorry butt today.”
Reece picked up his coffee mug. “Happy to oblige you, ma’am. And your butt is not sorry, so to speak.”
I tried not to blush, but the heat I felt between this man and me was sizzlin’.
“Cheers, June. To a meeting we’ll never forget.”
“Cheers.” We clinked our coffee mugs together and I distracted myself by staring out the windows, hung with white twinkling lights and fishnets for curtains. The sea lions were on the sand bar, lounging about, sometimes rolling into the river, then out to sea to gobble fish.
“So you heard about my wacky family. Tell me about your family, Reece.”
“Two brothers, two sisters, I’m in the middle. Not all living in our small farming and ranching community in eastern Oregon, where I own a ranch. My grandparents and their parents were all born there. My parents have four and five siblings each, so there’s a ton of aunts and uncles, grandparents, cousins. I’m related by family, marriage, or long-term friendships to almost everybody there. Everyone knows everyone else, and their business, and their parents’ and grandparents’ business, too, and they can recite all the family scandals, dating back at least a hundred years.”
“You have scandals in your family?”
“Heck yeah. Where do I start? There have been gunslingers and stagecoach robbers, eye-popping affairs, secrets, children fathered by men who weren’t their biological fathers, but were relatedtothe father. Feuds that lasted decades, stolen bulls that started family wars. Millionaires that were generous, millionaires who visited boudoirs. Practical jokes that are legend. There’s been a whole lot of love and friendship, too.”
“Tell me about the practical jokes.”
“Let’s see. My brother’s truck ended up on top of the elementary school. Horses were led out of a barn late one night and replaced by cows. My cousin snuck chickens into his uncle’s living room.” He told me more jokes, and I laughed so hard, I had to cross my legs.
“And your siblings?” I wiped the laughter tears from eyes.
“My oldest sister designs saddles and western wear and sells it in her store in town. The next kid, my brother, has a tea company in Portland and it’s going gangbusters. My younger sister is a fulltime mom, lives in town, has five kids, and her husband sells plumbing equipment, and my other brother is a cameraman for major motion pictures. He live in Los Angeles.”
