Stroke It

by Ivy Jordan

  “I told my dad I’d go fishing with him today,” I said. “Do you want to come?”

  “I’ve never been fishing before,” she admitted. She sat up, a blanket around her shoulders as though she had anything to hide from me.

  “Really?” I raised my eyebrows. It was hard to grow up anywhere around here and not eventually go fishing. “It’s a classic pastime!”

  “For guys,” she pointed out. “I’ve never really been outdoorsy, remember? I never had a reason to go fishing.”

  “Well, you do now,” I decided. “You’ve gotta come with us.”

  “I won’t be any good at it.”

  “There’s no being good or bad at it. You just sit on a boat for a little while and talk about stuff. Sometimes you don’t catch anything. You’ll do fine.” I smiled. “Come on, please?”

  “If you say so,” she conceded.

  After we got dressed and had a quick breakfast, we headed out to the nearby lake. We would have gone to Pete’s house to fish in his tank, but Pete wasn’t home, and Dad had made it relatively clear that he wanted to have some family time. I texted him to let him know that Quinn was coming with us, too.

  He was waiting for us when we got out there, sat against his car. “Well, hello! Sawyer told me he was bringing a friend.”

  “A friend?” Quinn lifted her eyebrow.

  I laughed. “I did not!”

  “You been fishing before?” Dad asked.

  Quinn shook her head. “No, sir. I’m not terribly good with it, I don’t think.”

  “You can’t be bad at fishing,” Dad said, echoing my earlier consolation. “And you can call me Eugene.”

  When Dad turned around to get a fishing pole for her, Quinn smiled at me and shrugged. I smiled back. It seemed they’d get along; at least that my dad liked her. That was a big deal in and of itself.

  We got set up on the river where the trees did a decent job of shading us. The river was cool to the touch, and we set up some lawn chairs in the sturdier soil.

  “If you get too close to the riverbank, you’ll get stuck in the mud, and we’ll have to come pull you out,” Dad warned Quinn.

  “Really?”

  “No, he’s messing with you,” I told her. “Well, don’t get too close to the riverbank. You will get stuck. It just won’t be all that bad.”

  She glanced down at her feet. “I wore sandals.”

  “That might be a problem,” I agreed. “Sorry. Forgot to mention the mud. I’ll do all the stomping around down there; you stay up here where it’s dry.”

  “Sounds good,” Quinn said.

  “You could just take your shoes off,” Dad joked.

  “No!” Quinn laughed and sat down in a lawn chair.

  Dad held the fishing rod out to her and said, “Now, what kind of bait do you want? Do you know what kind of fish you’re hoping to catch?”

  “I don’t know,” Quinn said. “What kind of bait works?”

  “They all do,” Dad said. He popped open his tackle box. “Here, you wanna get a worm on the hook?” He popped open the tub of worms and held it out to Quinn, who stared at me, mortified.

  “Dad, come on.” I picked up the tub and shook my head. “She’s never been fishing before, remember?”

  “They’re just worms!”

  But Quinn was laughing all the same. “I don’t want to touch them!” she exclaimed. “Use them, by all means, but I’m not ready yet.”

  “That’s perfectly fair,” I said to her—and to my father, who already had a protest forming on his mouth. I hooked the worm for her and made sure that her fishing rod was set to work properly. It wasn’t a particularly great fishing rod. My dad had the really expensive, top-of-the-line fishing rod, insisting that it was his best shot at getting the biggest fish in the river.

  Quinn cast the fishing rod perfectly well, and we sat back for a moment talking about nothing and everything. Quinn told Dad a little about where she worked, even though Dad already knew, and I served as the occasional barrier when Dad made a joke that was just a little too cruel. All in all, it was a fun gathering, and I was grateful that two of my favorite people were getting along so well.

  As the sun started to get higher up in the sky, the heat went from warm to uncomfortable. It reflected off the river and made for an unpleasant experience, and Dad declared the fishing time to be over.

  “I think it’s about time we packed up,” Dad said. “Fish are all at the bottom of the river.”

  “Wait, I think I got something.” Quinn furrowed her eyebrows and grabbed at the lever on her rod. “I think I got something.”

  I looked at her bobber—or, where her bobber had been, but wasn’t anymore. “Oh, shoot. Um, reel it in. Give it a tug.”

  Quinn tugged it back and started cranking the reel.

  “Slowly, slowly. Let it fight a little.”

  She loosened her grip and then began to turn the knob extremely slowly, and I laughed.

  “Well, not so slow that it gets away.”

  “I’m trying!” Quinn exclaimed. She tugged the rod up again, and a fish flopped up on the surface of the river. “Oh my God, I got something!”

  “You did! Reel her in. Easy goes.” Dad said, and he had a grin on his face.

  Quinn began to reel it in, and the fish became visible within a few seconds. A small perch, probably just going back for a little nap on the ocean floor, flopped in the air, suspended by the line.

  “Is that a good one?” Quinn asked. “What kind is it?”

  “You want to pull it in?” Dad asked.

  “Um…” Quinn stared at it, and I leaned forward to catch the line for her. I took the fish off the hook and held it in my hand.

  “Look at him. He’s a great fish,” I said.

  “I told you I’d catch something!” Quinn declared, beaming.

  “You told me nothing of the sort!” I protested.

  “Told you!” Quinn stuck her tongue out.

  I held the fish out to her. “You wanna hold him?”

  “No thank you!”

  My dad laughed behind us. “If you’re not going to hold him, toss him back. Let me get a picture first.”

  It was hilarious to me to take a picture with this tiny perch. But it was Quinn’s first fish, and so I smiled with her until Dad took his phone down and put it back in his pocket. “Toss it back and let’s pack up.”

  I helped Dad lug some of the tackle boxes back to the car while Quinn got the chairs folded. For a moment, Dad and I had some alone time to talk.

  “I’m proud of you, Sawyer,” Dad said. “She’s really something, isn’t she?”

  “She’s something,” I agreed. I smiled and waved at her from afar. She grinned and picked up the lawn chairs.

  “You two got any big plans together?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know. I… I hope we do.”

  He nodded. “Well, I certainly hope it works between the two of you. I like her, and I think she likes you too.”

  I grinned and laughed a little at how he phrased it, like it would be a feat to like me. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “I’m proud of you,” he repeated. “I really am, Sawyer.”

  I smiled, and I nodded, just to show that I appreciated the gravity of his statement. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d said that with sincerity, not buckled down to an apology or tied to some sort of treaty between the two of us. He clapped me on the back, and we got everything in the car loaded up.

  I didn’t know if Quinn and I had any big plans together, but I knew that my life was never going to be the same, now that she’d come into it.

  EPILOGUE

  Even after two years, I hadn’t gotten entirely accustomed to waking up to Sawyer. I didn’t know that I would ever get used to it, even with all of my things moved over to his place and my own quite well inhabited by someone else. A new family had taken residence in my old house, and I wished them the best of luck knowing that I was going somewhere better and, really,
perfect in every way for my future.

  I woke up and crept out of bed quietly, not wanting to wake Sawyer. He’d had a particularly long day the day before, not getting home until late. He worked hard and left little time for fun, but that was the case with myself as well. Psychiatry was going very well, and I had started a sort of group therapy for veterans to come and talk about their struggles abroad. It was still in the formative process, but it attracted a lot of attention, and the local newspaper had even done a column about it.

  I went to the kitchen and started making some eggs and toast. I made enough for the both of us in case Sawyer woke up soon.

  Sure enough, I heard footsteps down the hallway within a few moments of the smell of bacon hitting the air.

  “Good morning,” he said, pulling me to him from behind and kissing the back of my neck.

  “Good morning,” I agreed. Outside some birds chirped, and I didn’t know that anyone could prove to me that a world existed outside that house.

  “I told Pete I’d help him with some new decorations in his house,” Sawyer said. “But I don’t know shit about decorations. Do you think you’d be willing to come up with me for a bit?”

  “Sure,” I said. I got us some plates and we ate at the table, talking about whether we wanted to get another birdfeeder. The birds nearby were absolutely terrorizing the ones we had set up, but it was too much fun to have them to not want another.

  We took a few moments to get dressed. I pulled on a sweater; it was beginning to get a bit chilly. It was uncharacteristic of Texas to get chilly in the fall, but in only early October, it seemed that I would need a sweater. We got in Sawyer’s truck and turned to different radio stations on the way to Pete’s house. I’d been acquainting Sawyer with all the new music styles and technological advances that had taken place in his absence.

  When we pulled up to Pete’s house, something looked strange. Or, beautiful, but strange because Pete’s property usually looked humble. The trees had big bows tied around them, and there was a long carpet down the side of the hill covered in flower petals. I looked up the rug and saw a tree stump, one of the older ones that had been there since the first time I’d seen the property.

  Sawyer came around and opened my door, and he took my hand and walked with me up to the carpet.

  “Is Pete inside?” I asked.

  “I brought you here to talk to you,” he told me.

  I blushed. I didn’t know what was going on, and while I would usually panic at ‘I want to talk to you,’ the situation seemed far from dire. I set my hand on his arm and nodded. “Alright, then,” I managed, trying not to let my imagination run too wild.

  “Since I got back two years ago,” he said, “my life has been indescribably good. I could never have hoped for the family, the friends, and the relationships that I have now. I have a house; I have a good relationship with my father; I have a job—I didn’t expect to have any of those things when I came back. I didn’t think I deserved them.

  “But those things all happened because of you. You came into my life and made it something better than I could have ever dreamed. I have you to thank for everything good that’s happened to me, Quinn. I love you very much.” We were approaching the stump, and my heart started to pound.

  “I don’t want to see this go,” he said. “I love you, and I want to share the rest of my life with you, if you’ll let me.”

  We stopped in front of the stump. Something glinted and caught my eye; I peered and saw a ring, a small silver ring with a diamond-studded center.

  “Will you marry me?” he asked.

  I stared, dumfounded, at the ring. At the stump. The birds in the background filled the silence in the air. Slowly, I began to nod, pressured by the realization that I had to say something.

  “Of course. Of course, I will marry you!” I picked the ring up off the stump and slipped it onto my finger.

  He pulled me to him in a hug, squeezing me nearly too tight and yet somehow not tight enough. I wrapped my arms around him and bounced on my toes.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you too.”

  “Aww, that’s sweet,” said Pete—where had he come from? I turned around and saw him standing off to the side, along with Jesse and Janet and Sawyer’s parents. Babs waved at me too, hiding behind a tree.

  “How did you get them all here? How did I not see them?” I was a laughing, crying mess. “Oh my God, Sawyer!”

  “They’re good at hiding,” he said simply. He kissed the top of my head, and I turned around to poke him in the chest.

  “I’ll get you back for this,” I promised him, the smile never fading from my face.

  “You’ve got the rest of our lives,” he told me. He pulled me closer, and I let the world slip away.

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  SEAL MOUNTAIN MAN

  By Ivy Jordan

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Ivy Jordan

  Chapter One

  Elijah

  Fireworks exploded over the ocean in a wild display of color. I leaned back in my lounger, took a long swig of my fifth beer, and watched the world celebrate the New Year. Big fuckin’ deal.

  The Miami winter breeze was cool, actually cool enough to send shivers up my arms. It couldn’t be excitement from the lights in the sky; I’d seen plenty of those overseas, and they weren’t celebration lights.

  My thoughts drifted to the men lost over the years during service. Good men, strong men; men that I was proud I’d known. I often wondered why I came back home instead of them, why was I spared? What the hell did I have to offer this world? Quit feeling sorry for yourself, sissy pants, my dad’s voice echoed in my mind. It made me laugh. Not because it was funny, or even endearing. I just found it odd that I was even thinking about the old man.

  Loud reports from the fireworks brought my attention back to the sky. It was the finale, the sendoff that alerted all who watched that it was midnight, and a new year had just begun.

  Silhouettes of couples on the beach just below my deck hugged, kissed, and clung to one another like they feared the ocean breeze would carry them off, never to be seen again. Another thing that made me laugh. Kissing a loved one at midnight on the New Year, how was that supposed to bring you luck? I didn't buy into it any more than I bought into eating sauerkraut to bring good luck into the next year. Blah! No thank you, on either tradition.

  I’d been alone since I got back to the states, and that’s just how I liked it—for now, anyway. Women were everywhere, easy to seduce with my backstory of fallen soldiers, combat stories, and a few flexes of my thick muscles. An emergency always called me away, kept me from staying overnight and facing that awkward morning after. It was best that way. I wasn’t exactly boyfriend material or husband material; not like Isaac. He never shut up about Maddie the entire time we served together, and at one point, I really thought he’d made the girl up in his mind just to keep him sane during those chaotic times. We all wanted someone to love back home, someone who was waiting for us, praying for us, and that would welcome us home with open arms. I knew I didn’t have that, and I learned not to care.

  I mocked love, at least until I watched my old pal get the girl of his dreams. He was willing to risk anything, everything, just to keep her safe, even if it meant losing her forever. Wow, now that’s enough to make anyone believe in love. I just wasn’t sure love was right for me.

  My phone lit up like an encore to the fireworks show, beeping hysterically as texts flooded through. I opened my messages, read through all the generic texts from friends, ex-lovers, and SEAL brothers, all wishing me well in the new year. I slid to the last text, one that stopped me short.

  Unknown: Eli
jah, please call me as soon as possible regarding your father’s estate.

  I stared at the text from the unknown number, wondering if it possible to be the wrong number, the wrong Elijah. My dad was a strong, willful, old man. He couldn’t die.

  It was midnight, after midnight. Who would send such a text so late? Shit, Molokai, Hawaii was six hours behind Miami time, so it was only six o’clock there. It wasn’t a wrong number.

  Is this how I wanted to start my year? Not kissing someone, not eating sauerkraut, but calling whoever this was to talk about my father’s estate? Fuckin’ traditions, just because I didn’t follow through, this is how my year starts?

  I hit the number above the text, and held the phone to my ear.

  “John Sanderson, here,” a cheerful voice greeted me after just three rings.

  “This is Elijah Grant. You left me a message…” I trailed off as he interrupted my explanation.

  “Yes, Elijah. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m sure your father’s death was no surprise given his illness,” he spouted.

  “Illness?” I questioned.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I thought you knew. He’d been battling cancer for several years now. He was a fighter, your old man; stubborn as a mule, and determined to prove the doctors wrong,” the man chuckled.

  “I can only imagine,” I exhaled.

  Why hadn’t he told me about his illness? He never called, but then again, neither did I. Coming back from overseas, I made Florida my home, never planning on going back to Hawaii, ever.

  “Well, the matter of the home here is why I’m calling. You are the next of kin, and he did have you named in his last will and testament, even though it was never properly filed. The home is yours to do with as you wish, I just need to have you sign a few papers,” John Sanderson, bearer of bad news, spoke quickly.

  “Just sell it,” I sighed.

  It was my childhood home, one that didn’t carry too many happy memories. I didn’t want it. “We can surely do that, but I’ll still need you to sign some papers,” he instructed.