Page 83 of Every Beautiful Mile

I duck under his arm and gasp for air as he grins, clearly enjoying how he gets to me.

“You just look like you belong here. Fishing. It suits you.”

I plop down on the grassy shore and watch as he sends the line soaring through the air, making another beautiful arch.

Then another.

“I’ve spent a lot of time out in this river. I’ve learned a thing or two,” he says over his shoulder.

Even in ridiculous fishing gear, he’s a treat to watch.

I close my eyes and let the sun warm my face. The sounds of the water flowing, the birds singing, and the leaves rustling stitch together like scraps of fabric that form a mismatched quilt of the memory that’s forming. A memory I desperately want to be a tangible thing I carry with me.

Ethan plops down beside me in the grass. “What are you thinking about?”

“Hmm. That’s a loaded question.” My head tilts toward him. “I’m thinking about how I can understand why you live here. I’m thinking I wish moments like this lasted hours instead of seconds.”

If my words scare him, he doesn’t show it. He just nods and looks out at the same river I do, neither of us moving closer to the other.

Our reality doesn’t allow for it.

I live 1,723 miles away from this house, and a dead man’s ring hangs around my neck. I’m leaving tomorrow—never seeing him again. It’s a fact that dents my heart enough to make my chest ache.

He snaps a blade of grass in his fingers. “So, Bar Harbor, huh? Any big plans?”

“Of course! Hiking the national park, lobsters, whales, puffins, sailing, more lobster.” I tick the items off on my fingers. “I know I sound like a stupid tourist, but I’ve always wanted to see the coast of Maine.”

I hug my wader covered knees to my chest and look at him.

“Do you ever leave your mountain and go to the coast, or are you bound here by some kind of magic?”

“I do leave the mountain, thank you very much.” He tosses the grass he’s holding at me. “I get a lot of seafood from the fisherman in Bar Harbor, actually.”

I hold his gaze. I want to tell him to make a trip there next week. I want to say, let’s go meet the fisherman together. But hope is a sweet con, and I know there’s no use. The words that linger on the tip of my tongue die without ever being said.

“Your porch come with wine?” I ask, bumping my shoulder against his.

He laughs. “Actually, it does.” He grabs my hand and pulls me up.

I don’t let go as we start to walk to his house.

Neither does he.

Thirty-one

When the kids get back, it’s with a cooler full of brook trout.

Derek slings his hip waders over the railing of the porch. “I found a recipe I want to try to cook them, Dad. You mind?”

Ethan’s eyes widen slightly. “You? Cook?”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes, Dad. Me. Cook. You aren’t the only one in the family that knows how to make food.”

The frustration that flickers across Ethan’s face is gone as fast as it comes.

“Right. Just let me know if you need help with anything.”

“I can make a salad,” Marin offers.

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