by Serena Bell
“You’re making that up.”
“I’m not.”
She shakes her head. “Lucy should redo all her marketing campaigns just to focus on all the hotness the Wilder Brothers generate in a normal day. Sex sells, right?”
“I guess it does.” I dip down to kiss her neck, soft as silk. “You’re going to sunburn here.”
“Damn. I forgot sunscreen.”
“It’s OK.” I produce an extra neck gaiter from my pocket.
“Seriously, you just carry gear like this around?”
“Guys who run charters get used to bailing people out. Also, I’m not as good at it as I seem.”
I tell her the story of the first totally inauspicious book club. The missing TP, bug wipes, and sunscreen. The women and their gossip. Chicklet’s unintended swimming lesson. My reviews.
She makes faces and frowns and laughs in all the right places, and it takes the sting out of the memory.
“I wondered why you issued individual portions on the TP. And what accounted for that very intense sign in the head about menstrual products going in the provided trash bag.”
“Now you know,” I say. “Extreme trauma relating to having to snake and pump out the head.”
She laughs and takes another—not very successful—shot at casting.
But before too long, she gets the hang of it, and we stand side by side—as close as we can without risking tangling—and cast into the lazy Mionet.
She’s quiet for a long time, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Standing with her, enjoying the rush of the river, the calls of crows and eagles. The songs of smaller birds.
The sight of her, standing quietly, patiently, waiting with me.
I had no idea how much I wanted this. None.
Later in the morning, as the cooler gets heavier with trout and the birds quiet down for midday, we both get chattier. I explain to her a bunch about the different kinds of lures.
“What’s the one you keep in your pocket?” she asks.
I hadn’t known she’d noticed.
“My dad and I made it when I was little. I loved it and wanted to keep it with me instead of putting it in the tackle box. So he cut the hook off, and I’ve had it ever since. It’s kind of a good-luck charm. Or worry stone. Both.”
She smiles at that. “Your dad was always so nice to me. I miss him.”
“Me too.”
She nods.
“Are you going to teach Justin? To fish?”
I feel myself freeze, and I see the moment where she picks up on it.
“I’m sorry,” she says, quickly. “That was—the wrong question.” Then she takes a deep breath. “It’s just—it’s so clear how much you love him. Maybe you should try to spend more time with him. If his parents are okay with that.”
The suggestion doesn’t hurt as much as I would have expected it to. It feels…okay. “Zoë asked me to. To spend more time with him. She needs more childcare now that Len went back to his wife.”
She winces.
“Yeah.”
“Once a dick, always a dick.” She sighs. “I wish I could warn Werner’s next girlfriend.”
“Did you just curse?”
She smiles. “I think I did. I mean, call a dick a dick, right?”
I grin.
“Maybe Justin would like going out on the boat. He’s old enough now to get the wind and the sky and the water, right?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Pretty sure he knows a lot more about what’s going on than we think. We should take him out.”
We.
I try not to love the sound of that, and fail.
“When I was his dad—”
I choke on the words.
“Brody.”
She can’t set down the rod or approach me without tangling us, but she reaches out a hand, and I take it. Her touch calms me enough that I can get the rest of the sentence out. “That was my fantasy. That I’d teach him about the boat. Teach him to be an angler. A fly fisherman.”
“You don’t have to lose that part,” she says. “You still can.”
I let the thought sit for a moment. I let myself picture it again.
It feels good.
I squeeze her hand.
Then I say, “The wedding was supposed to be a week from Saturday.”
“How are you feeling about that?” she asks, cautiously.
I test myself out around it. Poke the date and the event, Zoë and Justin and Len, with the edges of my bruised emotions.
I squeeze her hand again.
“Surprisingly okay.”
I’m rewarded with a Rachel smile so big it hurts my chest.
28
Rachel
“Look, Justin! Elk!”
I point to the shore, and his baby gaze seems to follow mine, but it’s hard to tell. I don’t know how far a six-month-old can see, how sharp his vision is at picking out the large, brown deer-like creature from the rest of the woods, or whether he cares. He grabs my finger and babbles, so that seems like a good start.
Justin, Brody, and I are out on Brody’s small fishing boat on one of the lakes in the national forest, soaking up some mid-summer sunshine and each other’s company, and, man, this is the life. After I suggested to Brody that he try to spend more time with Justin, he told Zoë he wanted to take Justin out in the boat, and she said it was fine, as long as he wore a life jacket. So he’s twice as roly-poly in one of those little baby life vests.
I carry Justin back to where Brody is casually piloting the boat and wearing yet another form-fitting t-shirt and pair of butt-flattering ripped jeans. I let myself enjoy the ink-and-ropy-muscle forearm porn for a moment, until Justin squawks and reaches for Brody. I tip the baby into Brody’s arms.
Gah, the two of them. Squishy baby and ripped dad. I allow myself the luxury of ogling. And enjoy the melting sensation in my chest.
Brody steers us to a spot that’s shaded by the angle of sun and mountain, and we drift a bit. Brody takes advantage of the opportunity to let Justin “steer.” He plants Justin’s fat little hands on the wheel, and Justin appears delighted, slapping his palms repeatedly on the wheel and turning to give his father a gummy grin.
“You’re so good with him,” I say.
“I don’t know about that.”
Brody’s scowling, something I realize I haven’t seen him do in quite a while.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry if that was the wrong thing to say.”
“What makes you think that?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Your scowl.”
“I’m not scowling.”
All I can do is laugh. For a second, Brody’s scowl deepens, then breaks. Not quite a smile, but the corner of his mouth quirks. It makes me feel like I’ve been crowned queen of all I survey.
Justin reaches up and grabs Brody’s mouth.
“Ow,” Brody says. “Dude, that hurts. Save the hooks for the fish.” He untangles Justin’s fingers from his lower lip. Justin puts both his baby hands on the sides of Brody’s face and smacks his forehead into Brody’s chin.
“Why?” Brody demands, lifting Justin up so they’re face-to-face. “Why do you want to hurt me, little man?”
Justin chortles and drools on Brody’s face.
“Oh, God,” Brody says. “You need a new diaper.”
He grabs the diaper bag, plops Brody down on a mat on one of the benches in the stern, and proceeds to execute a surprisingly speedy and hazard-free change. It’s been years since I babysat, and I was never an expert, but I can recognize true skill when I see it.
There’s something ridiculously hot about a tattooed biker bad boy changing a diaper without batting an eyelash.
He gets Justin dressed again, lets him lie on the seat, kicking his legs. He finds a bright colored toy with a million dangly bits and hands it to Justin, who alternates between shoving it in his mouth and hooting at the sky.
We both watch him, because babies. They’re full-time e
ntertainment.
“Do you want kids?” I ask Brody.
He nods. “I didn’t think I did. And then this guy came along. So yeah, I do, but…”
He stops.
“What?”
He shrugs, and pulls the lure—the one from his dad—out of his pocket. Fidgets with it. I know him well enough by now to know it means something big’s bugging him.
He worries the body of the “fly” with his thumb, then sighs. “I don’t know if I’ve got what it takes.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got a taste of how much responsibility there is. And I guess I just don’t know if I’m the guy who signs up for that.”
“I think you could be. If you wanted to be.”
“Yeah,” he says.
I wait for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He’s scowling again, and worrying the lure, and I don’t want to press.
“Hey,” he says, a moment later. “What about you? I’ve gotten to go on three of my favorite dates now: a motorcycle ride, a river fishing expedition, and a day on the boat. What about yours? What’s your dream date?”
I have to think about it a minute. “This is pretty great,” I admit, surveying the gorgeous scene around us. “But I think my favorite would be if someone ever cooked for me.”
“If someone ever cooked for you,” he repeats. “Does that mean no one has ever cooked for you?”
I think about this, hard, and conclude: “I mean, my parents and my grandparents, of course. But no guy, no.”
“Your ex must have, though. You lived together, right?”
I shake my head, finally able to admit to myself that Werner was a straight up …
I abandon the attempt to find a non-filthy way to characterize Werner. He was an asshole, pure and simple. “He cooked for me if you count eggs and mac and cheese. And takeout pizza. Also, he made me cold cereal right before he cheated on me.”
Brody’s eyes narrow, and his jaw ticks. “Can I just repeat that your ex is a criminally shitty human being?”
“As many times as you’d like.”
He squints into the sun, then smiles at me. My body temperature rises a hundred and fifty degrees.
“So here’s how it’s going to go,” he says. “We’re going to drop Justin off with Zoë, head back to my place, and I’ll cook you dinner.”
“You cook?” I ask, although if the bad boy changes diapers, why am I surprised that he also cooks?
“Just one of my many, many skills,” he says, eyes all sexy intent. “Wait till you experience all the things I’m good at.”
Okay, maybe I’m not so much surprised as struck dumb by the embarrassment of riches that is Brody Wilder.
And a little bit terrified, because I’m pretty sure that I’m falling for the bad boy.
29
Brody
We drop off Justin first. Rachel waits in the truck while I walk Justin up to the door.
“How’d it go?” Zoë asks, taking him from me. He fusses a little and clings to my shirt. I have to admit, it makes me feel like a superhero, even though I feel sad for Justin, too. I wish Zoë had found a way to give him a life where all the people he loves were in one place. That’s not the way it is, though.
But I can make sure Justin always knows he’s loved. I can do that.
“I want to see him more,” I tell her. “I’ll take him whenever you need me to and I can. I want him to know I’m in his life.”
Zoë nods, like she’s been expecting this. “I want to take a girls’ trip to California next month. Would you want to do four days then?”
“Email me the dates, and if I can work it around my trips or get a couple of hours of childcare from my family, I’m in.”
She beams. “Thank you. I know you don’t have to do this, but I appreciate it.”
“I’m not doing it for you.” I don’t say it angrily. Just honestly. “I’m doing it for Justin.”
“I know.”
We share a weak smile. This is probably the best place we’ll ever get to, and I’m suddenly glad we’re here.
And grateful to Rachel for helping me get here.
“Bye, little dude,” I tell Justin, who has quit being mad about my leaving and buried his face in his mom’s shirt. That was quick. Luckily, babies are resilient.
Back at the truck, I say, “thank you,” to Rachel.
“What for?”
“For making me do the right thing by Justin instead of sulking about how Zoë screwed me over. I still wish Justin were mine, but I’d rather be his fun uncle than no one in his life.”
She smiles at me. “You’re a really good fun uncle.”
I think of what she said earlier, that I would make a good father. When she said it, I let myself, for a split second, imagine a different scene. The two of us, on a boat, with a child. Our child. And then I pushed it out of my head.
I start the truck. “I’m going to take a spin by the farmer’s market and pick up a few things for dinner.”
“Can we make a stop first? By my house? There are a few things I want to grab. If you’re doing dinner, I want to be in charge of dessert.”
“Sure.”
We make a quick run by the Perez homestead, and she emerges with a plastic shopping bag from Rush to Read Books, which she tucks into the side map pocket.
I eye the bag. “You’re not going to tell me what you’re making?”
She shakes her head. “I’m just going to say that I know you’ll like it.”
“Okay.”
We stop by the farmer’s market and I grab a bottle of local wine, a six-pack of my favorite local brew, and some salad makings. Then we head back to my place.
I unload the vegetables onto the kitchen counter, pull out a stool for Rachel to sit on, and pour her a glass of wine.
She’s obviously not used to watching someone else cook, because she can’t stand to not be helping. She keeps reaching for the knife, the measuring cup, whatever I happen to be holding. “Let me do that.”
“Just sit there and look pretty,” I say, and she blushes. “All those times your mom or your grandmoms cooked for me? This is nothing.”
She smiles at that.
“They came for those long visits in the summer.”
“Months.” Her smile turns wistful. “That was after they retired. Those were my favorite times of year. But you and Connor hated it.”
“Because there were three times as many adults riding our asses and catching us doing destructive shit.”
She laughs. “Too true.”
“But your mom always seemed happier when they were here.”
She nods. “Totally. And also weirdly more frazzled.”
“And someone was always cooking. I just took all that good food for granted. Do you have those recipes?” I reach for a peeler and start shaving a cucumber.
“I definitely have a few that my mom uses, and my dad’s mom, but my abuelita never used recipes. She worked in a factory. So she’d get home after a long day and start rice in the rice cooker and throw together something for dinner. She still cooks that way. Meat, garlic, green pepper, onion, tomato sauce, and cumin, brown everything, cook for a while, and you’ve got dinner.”
“Well, whatever she did, it was fucking awesome.”
She gets a distant look on her face. “I see her a lot more now that I’m in Boston and only a few hours from her in New York.”
Right. I’d almost let myself forget that Rachel lives three thousand miles away.
“It’s been really great. I finally learned enough Spanish so the two of us can speak it together.”
“I thought you took Spanish in high school?”
She nods. “Yeah, I did, but I was never fluent. My parents didn’t speak it at home, and I gave my mom hell for that when I struggled with high school Spanish. They had their reasons—wanting me to ‘fit in’”—she air quotes it—“and wanting to make sure my English was solid. But my mom has said a few times she’d do it differently
if she had it to do over again. She’s super psyched that I’m speaking it now with my grandmother—but it’s funny, my mom and I still always speak English. It’s like that’s where my relationship with her is stored in my brain.”
She reaches out a hand and tries to take a knife and a red pepper from me. “Give me that.”
I shake my head. “Answer’s still no.”
“I can’t believe you’re cooking for me!”
I think that’s the fifth time she’s said that. It’s really cute. And also makes me mad. Because how completely fucking ridiculous is it that her ex never cooked for her? The thing about Rachel is, she’s so easy to please. She’s beautiful and smart and sexy and uncomplicated and the littlest things make her light up: elk jerky and cherries, the rush of jumping into the lake, learning to cast, catching her first trout, narrating a boat trip to a six-month-old, watching me cook. It doesn’t take much to make her happy, and that asshole never even tried.
“What about your other grandparents?” I ask her.
“I see them, short visits, flights down to Miami, or weekends they come to see me and stay in a hotel. I miss the long visits.”
I don’t tell her that if she moves back to Rush Creek, she’ll get the long visits back. I haven’t spent much time recently at Connor’s parents’ house, but I know those visits still happen. But I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to talk her into moving here.
I know she wouldn’t.
It’s not in the plan… and I would never ask her to give up the plan for me.
Rachel’s manners would totally win my mom’s approval. She tries to insist I should let her set the table, but I tell her I’ve got it. When it’s time to sit, I pull out her chair for her and scooch it back in again.
She smiles up at me. “I know I’m not supposed to like that.”
“Like what?” I sit across from her.
“You pulling out my chair for me. Pushing it in. I’m supposed to be strong and self-sufficient and do it for myself. But don’t stop.”
I laugh. “You got it.”
Later tonight, I decide, I’m going to get her to say that in another context entirely. Don’t stop.