Page 55 of The Charm of You

My heart fills with something more too.

This is the perfect place to clear my head. It doesn’t get much better than this.

“No one else is fishing here,” I say to Austin, who stands on the sidelines. He hasn’t moved, nor has he put any of the gear down. Has he been staring at me?

He finally stirs and drops the tackle box by his feet, and the rattle echoes over the gentle swooshing of the river.

As I hop down and trudge toward him, I ask, “How did you find this spot?”

“By driving around.” He shrugs as he sets two rods down and gets to work on the end of one. “I don’t know how much you remember or how you fished with your father. Either way, you’re out of practice, so we won’t be using a baitcaster. This is a lightweight rod with a spinning reel.” He jiggles a lure resembling a fish. “This is the crankbait. We want to cast it downstream and reel it back against the current. Otherwise, you have no control over the speed.”

“Control—good. Chaos—bad,” I muse.

“Fishing’s more of a quiet activity.” He locks his eyes on me. “Think you can handle it?”

“I can, but you’re the one talking more than usual.”

“I’m trying to explain.”

I make a show of zipping my lips and throwing away an imaginary key.

“Let’s get on with it,” he mumbles and hands me a rod. On the end of it, the crankbait sways and catches the sun’s rays against its reflective skin. Daddy and I used live bait once, and it grossed me out so much that he promised we’d use the fake kind from then on.

Thankfully, Austin brought the fake kind too, so I didn’t have to subject him to my freakout.

I run my fingers over the line and spinning reel, reacquainting myself with the instrument. It’s been so long that any familiarity I once had with it is mostly gone, though. Staring at it, I keep digging and digging for more buried memories, and I barely scratch the surface as Austin makes the first cast.

His lure lands in the water with a soft plop. “Put your finger over the line, throw it, and let go halfway to the target to make the cast. Like this,” he says, reeling and casting again. Then he peers over at me. “You try.”

Humming the first tune that pops into my head, I rear slightly back and mimic what Austin just did the best I can.

But my lure doesn’t land in the water.

“Shit,” I mutter and turn the reel to collect the line.

“You didn’t let go in time.” He sets his rod down and lunges over a rock to stand next to me. “Try again.”

He uses his large hand to place my finger into position, and the contact sends an electric current up my arm. His warmth envelops me, and right now, I’d love nothing more than to greedily inhale his cologne.

But I call upon every ounce of restraint I possess to refrain from leaning into him for more.

His voice loses its usual edge as he mutters instructions, and it further fills me with gooey tingles.

I do as he says, and this time, the lure somehow lands two feet in front of me. I have to jimmy it out from where it’s wedged between two rocks.

We repeat the unofficial lesson three more times, and while I expect him to lose patience, he never does. I’m so surprised I almost don’t realize when I make a cast semi-correctly.

“There you go.” He claps. “Much better, Homecoming Queen. The trout won’t know what hit ’em.”

Instead of admiring my handiwork, I can’t take my eyes off Austin.

We might’ve kicked this afternoon off with a rough start, but he’s lightened up quite a bit. It’s like this rod is a healing machine.

He’s gentler and less hindered out here. His frowning eyes are now smiling. The lines and creases from his tight jaw are smooth.

My body vibrates as I make another cast.

“You’re humming.”

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