Page 33 of High Velocity

“Let it out,” he mumbles in my hair.

So I do.

I let it out, after months of desperately holding myself together for fear of falling apart, I let myself purge.

Eleven

Jackson

“Sorry I unloaded on you.”

I look up to meet her eyes. They’re still a little red-rimmed from her epic crying bout. I was starting to get worried when the tears just kept coming and coming, as if she’d saved those all up for years.

Who knows, maybe she had?

“Don’t be,” I reassure her, turning back to the creek to watch my nymph bob on the water. “I appreciate you sharing with me.”

I didn’t think going out for dinner was a good idea after Stephanie’s tears finally dried, so I decided to try and catch dinner. I’m hoping if I can pull a good-sized trout out of the creek, I could cook it on JD’s charcoal grill on the deck. I noticed Stephanie must’ve done a grocery run recently because there is plenty of stuff in the fridge I can use to make us a decent meal.

I reel in my line and lift the rod over my shoulder before I start casting it back out in smooth strokes.

“Is that a fish?” she asks when the nymph on the end of my line disappears as soon as it hits the water.

The slight tug on the line is confirmation, and I quickly jerk the tip of my rod up to set the hook.

“Feels like it.”

The trout I reel in makes for a good distraction from the heavier subject of her meltdown. I get it, I’ve been there.

“That’s probably enough for the both of us,” she comments, picking up the landing net.

When I get the fish close to shore, she quickly dips the net in the water and scoops it up. Then she grabs a firm hold of the trout’s jaw, lifts it up, and deftly frees the small hook from its mouth.

Another thing I can add to the list of things I like about Stephanie, she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.

“Mom died when I was young, so I grew up in a house ruled by testosterone,” she explains when she catches my appreciative glance. “Fishing was a regular activity. Summer or winter,” she adds with a grimace.

“Ice fishing?”

“Yes, Lake Michigan is good for perch and walleye. Sometimes lake trout.”

She carries the fish to the deck and I follow with the fishing gear, dumping it by the back door.

“Got any experience cleaning them?” I ask.

She throws me a sassy look as she hands me the fish. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t admit to it. The job’s all yours, but I’ll gladly help by chopping vegetables for a salad.”

“Sounds fair.”

Half an hour later, the trout is ready for the grill. Skin on, with the head and tail still attached, but the body cavity is stuffed with thinly sliced shallots, sliced lemon, a few twigs of fresh rosemary and thyme, and generous seasonings. I bound it with twine and drizzled the skin with olive oil. It sizzles when it hits the hot grill.

“That smells good already,” Stephanie volunteers when she steps outside with a beer for me and a glass of ice tea for herself. “Where did you learn how to cook? Your mom?”

I try not to laugh. Ma’s cooking skills are basic at best, which is why she happily leaves it to others.

“Lucy taught me. Bo’s wife?” I clarify when she doesn’t seem to recognize the name. “Lucy manages the horse rescue. She’s worked for Ma for over twenty years. She’s family and we all shared a house before I went off to join the Army and Ma moved in with Jonas. Lucy did most of the cooking and she’s an amazing chef, better even than Ama—JD’s mother—which is saying a lot.”

I take a sip of my beer and check on the fish before closing the lid on the grill.

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