Goose by Dawn O'Porter Page B

haven’t been able to stop thinking about Gordon since Thursday. I know he isn’t the sexiest guy ever, but there is something about him I really fancy. I think it’s just how well he knows himself, how self-assured he seems. How comfortable he is with his faith. Comfortable enough to stand on stage in front of a room full of people and sing songs about it. I can’t imagine doing anything like that. I haven’t even told my own mother I am religious, let alone an entire ticket-paying audience. I want to have as much conviction – I want to feel what he feels and believe the way that he does. I close my eyes.
    â€˜Dear God,’ I say quietly, ‘thank you for the last few weeks. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you. I’m not sure I am at the stage of head banging to rock songs about you, but I am not really the kind of person who would head bang to rock songs anyway, so please don’t be offended. I will give it a go though, I promise. I just wanted to tell you that I have been feeling better about Dad. I still miss him every day of course, but I think I feel less guilty, or at least more understanding about the fact there was nothing I could have done to stop his heart attack. And I can breathe through those moments where I miss him so much I could cry. I just focus on him and smile and somehow the tears just don’t come. That is when I feel you the most, when I find a way to stop the tears. It’s like you dry them up for me. I have created a voice for you in my head – I think you would like it. It’s quite deep and slow, and soothing. It wouldn’t work on anyone else – a human might come across as a bit creepy – but for you, it works. I think you might have sent me a message the other night at Tudor Falls? I thought making me sit through the sex with Miss Trunks and Mr Carter was a really odd way to do it, but I did get your message. You showed me that I am a good person, didn’t you? You reminded me how other people do bad things, how they lie, how they cheat, and that my guilt and my issues with myself really are not based on anything I have actually done. That is right, isn’t it? That is the lesson you wanted me to learn? So thank you, God. I  … ’
    â€˜Who on earth are you talking to?’ asks Mum. She is inside my room. I can feel the heat coming off her. What do I do? Do I tell her, or do I pretend I am learning something for school? She looks exasperated with me, but then she often is. This is who I am now. I must be strong.
    â€˜I was talking to God.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜God. I’ve been going to church for weeks.’
    She looks confused.
    â€˜God?’
    â€˜Yes, God. Do you believe in God, Mum?’
    â€˜No, I do not. You know I don’t go to church.’
    â€˜Well, I do. Did you want anything?’
    I can’t quite gauge her reaction. It’s impossible to tell whether she’s angry, or surprised, or possibly even frightened. She just keeps staring at me lying on the bed, her eyes scanning me up and down. Then it’s almost as if she remembers what she is here for.
    â€˜I need you to babysit Abi tonight. I have been asked out.’
    â€˜By a man?’ I ask.
    â€˜Yes, by a man, Flo. I wouldn’t have thought I will be late.’
    I very rarely say no to my mother. Partly because I rarely need to, because I hardly have the world’s most kicking social life, but mostly because even though our conversations might make us sound like two people who are virtual strangers to each other, we actually get on better than ever now, and I want it to stay that way. My life is now a juggling act of trying to keep her on a level so she doesn’t have a nervous breakdown – something I am aware she could have at any given moment if she had the opportunity – and I worry that saying no to her will put us back to where we were even two years ago. She hated me,