Page 20 of Finding Silence
There goes my quiet and predictable life.
Chapter 7
Phil
* * *
You know how, when people tell you not to do something, the urge to do it is impossible to resist?
Well, after spending most of last night and this morning scouring all the crap about me that’s gone viral, leaving me with heart palpitations and a broken coffee mug, I wish I’d heeded their caution.
Folks are vile, and I can see no matter what we do, the addiction angle is one that will linger, whether I’m dead or alive. I’m being drawn and quartered for something I’m not guilty of.
People are coming out of the woodwork—supposed friends of mine—who are saying the most outrageous things about me just to claim their own five minutes of fame. Hell, even my old neighbor in Portland was interviewed by some journalist and mentioned regular wild parties going on at my house.
In all the years I’d lived there, I’d only ever thrown one party. It was a Fourth of July party for the block—because it was my turn—and she was a guest. The only thing wild had been Sandra from across the street, who’d been drinking like a fish because she’d just discovered Bill, her husband, was cheating on her. Things became very heated between them, requiring some intervention.
There is even speculation about whether I have actually written the songs accredited to me.
But none of that matters; not at this point. No one is going to believe anything I say with this so-called evidence piling up, so what is the point? It’s bound to bleed into this new life I’ve just launched in Silence. Maybe I should’ve moved to a private island instead.
A knock at my door has my heart jump in my throat.
Surely, they haven’t found me already?
Instead of checking the peephole, I pull up the app the guy who put in my security system installed on my phone. From it, I can access the feed from all four cameras installed around the perimeter of the house.
To my relief it’s not the dreaded hordes of paparazzi standing on my doorstep, but my grumpy neighbor, carrying a couple of rods and a tackle box, and with a pair of waders slung over his shoulder.
“Got coffee?” is the first thing out of his mouth when I open the door.
“Uh…I can make some.”
“Good. I’ll meet you out back.”
With that, he turns his back and heads down the porch steps.
“What is it we’re doing? Exactly?” I ask when I join him by the edge of the creek with two travel mugs of fresh coffee.
He has his tackle box spread open with a collection of flies, the likes of which I’ve never seen. He’s already rigged one of his rods, and is working on the other one.
“I’m gonna show you how to catch these brook trout, and then we’re smoking whatever we catch for dinner tonight.”
“Oh, we are, are we?” I comment, surprised to find myself grinning at his overbearing announcement. “How are we gonna smoke it though? I don’t have a smoker or even a grill.”
That’s something I’ve been meaning to look into. The grill I had in Portland was well-worn and wasn’t worth loading up on the moving truck.
“I do,” he says, solving that problem. “We can clean them and smoke them up at my place. You know how to clean a fish?”
If I were at all insecure about my abilities, I’d be good and offended by now, but I’m not, and I don’t think he means to be condescending. I’m pretty sure Savvy has filled him in by now, which makes his visit a show of kindness. Despite his egregiously bigoted comments, I appreciate the gesture.
“Able, and willing to put down a five on doing it better and faster than you,” I challenge him with a grin.
One of his eyebrows shoots up under the brim of his hat, and I could swear there was a small tug at the corner of his mouth. An almost smirk, now we’re getting somewhere.
“You’re on, but you’re gonna have to catch one first.”
“Wanna place a bet on who’s gonna pull in the first one?” I sweeten the pot.
