Walk on the Wilder Side by Serena Bell
27
Brody
Iwake up way too early on Monday morning, wishing I hadn’t asked Rachel to go fly fishing.
Because here’s the thing: I really like Rachel. And I love fly fishing.
But some things that are great on their own aren’t meant to be blended. Split pea soup with smoked bacon, and mint chocolate chip ice cream, for example. Separately? Brilliant. Together? Scary.
Most people are too impatient for fly fishing. Too chatty. Too inquisitive. I’m careful who I take on my river charters, because I don’t want to ruin fly fishing for myself.
I pick up Rachel in the truck.
She ambles down the front steps, and she’s fucking adorable—wearing a baseball cap and a fishing vest, carrying waders and a pair of wading boots. Since I know Connor didn’t outfit her, I’m guessing she asked for help from Amanda, Hanna, and Lucy. Between the three of them they probably have all the gear, but if not, they know who to ask.
The vest is huge. It might be her dad’s. She’s swimming in its hugeness.
Under the adorable?
She’s fucking sexy. The fishing vest hangs open, and she’s wearing a thin lavender base layer underneath that clings to her curves. It makes me want to bail out on the whole trip right now and just undress her.
She sees me staring at her and raises her eyebrows. “Did I do okay?”
I nod. “You look great. And you make that shit look hot.”
Her smile lights up the early-morning Perez property.
She climbs into the truck.
“Do you want music?” I ask, pulling out of the driveway.
“Um, do you mind if we don’t? Sometimes I just really like it quiet.”
You can’t always know what you crave until it lands in your lap. I don’t think I could have predicted that Rachel’s simple observation would feel like a gift. But here we are, headed out to the upper Mionet River, the windows cracked, the radio silent, the sun still fighting to clear the morning mist, and it’s so goddamn peaceful.
And she’s part of the peace, like she soaks up some of the ambient noise.
I reach out and take her hand, and she squeezes mine back.
I showher how to cast. How the line floats out first, and the fly follows. I tell her that if you do it right, it’s called bending and stroking the rod.
“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.