26
Jack
Two months later.
“When does it start snowing?”
I stare down at the boy sitting on the bench. He stares right back at me, all seriousness. I point to the mountains in the distance. “You see up there? The snow never melts. It stays cold all year round.”
He looks amazed, and I guess for a kid from Texas, the very idea is probably amazing. The little boy—his name is Jayden—was feeling a little seasick as we bobbed on Kachemak Bay, and if I can make him think of anything but the rolling waves and the movement of the boat, then I’ve done my job. Jayden and his family are on summer vacation, and all I have to do is make sure they get back to the wharf at the end of the day with a few fish in the cooler and some fun pictures on their phones. Compared to Harper’s checklist of expectations and procedures, this job is a breeze.
A voice calls out behind us, rising in panic. “I got one! Oh my God, I think I got one!”
Jayden’s Aunt Gloria is gripping her fishing rod like it might explode at any second and staring at me with a frightened expression.
“It’s fine,” I say. “You’ve got time. Let him have some line.”
A job wasn’t easy to come by. The seafood plants are always hiring, but my body can’t handle standing for that many hours in a row. I need movement. Fresh air. Stef encouraged me to travel, but that required having money to spend, and all I had was a few weeks of pay from the lodge. But my dad knew someone who knew someone who ran fishing charters out of Homer. Just day trips for tourists, nothing fancy. The pay sucks, but people tip surprisingly well, and the captain—an old man with no teeth and fewer people skills named Hank—splits the proceeds with me when he sells whatever fish the tourists don’t want to take home.
It’s not how I thought I’d be spending my summer, but at least I’m still on the water. The people are nice, and they ask the same questions over and over. When does it snow? What’s the biggest fish you’ve ever caught? Have you ever seen a moose?
No one asks about the movie stars I might have met.
“What do you do, Jack, when the fishing season is over? Do you have a different job in the winter?” someone asks later as we motor back into the harbor.
That is an excellent question. I’ve got a job here for sure until the end of August and then however long the tourists keep coming after that. Once they’ve all gone home though, I don’t know. Stef wants me to move up to Anchorage. She’s been there for a month and already found a job as a receptionist at a shipping company. She says they’re always looking for people to work in their warehouse, and she could get me set up no problem. It would be easy, but I don’t know. She’s doing pretty well with Graham. He ran into some kind of licensing holdup about practicing medicine in a new state, but instead of backing out like I expected him to, he said he’d take the summer to spend time with Robbie before school starts, and he’s held true to his word. He’s trying, and I have to give him credit for that.
So moving to Anchorage feels like getting in the way of a good thing that’s only starting to gain momentum.
But my guests don’t need to hear any of that.
“I’m thinking of moving south,” I say. “Maybe California. The fishing seasons run longer there.”
That’s the only reason. It has nothing to do with California also being where Damian might be. Honestly, I have no idea where he is. The sex tape story disappeared off the main news sites within a week or two, and I haven’t seen his name online since. Not that I check much. But there’s a coffee shop with free Wi-Fi in town that I go to sometimes, and even if I spend more time looking at the entertainment news now than I did three months ago, it still hasn’t given me any more information on the mystery that is Damian Marshall.
It’s a warm, blue-sky day, and the family thanks me as they disembark. Jayden gives me a high five. His dad shakes my hand and slips me a hundred-dollar bill.
“For looking after Jayden when he wasn’t feeling good,” he says with a wink.
With the tourists gone, I take what’s left of the fish off to the shed to clean. Hank will put it in a cooler and sell it from the back of his truck on the road out of town. It’s not fancy, but it works.
“Excuse me,” a voice says behind me as I’m filleting the second halibut. “I’m looking for a fishing guide.”
“You’ll want to talk to Hank about that,” I say, using the tip of my knife to point toward where Hank is spraying down the decks.
“I’m sure he’s very good, but I’d like to talk to you.”
It’s only as he finishes speaking that recognition finally hits. I nearly put the knife through my hand as my grip slips.
I turn, and David’s standing there dressed in a pale blue Henley and dark blue jeans that still fit him too well.
“Where’s your parka?” Not the first thing I meant to say, but it’s what comes out.
He smiles and something inside me quivers. “Apparently Alaska’s nice in the summer.”
The wind blows against my back, reminding me I smell like salt and fish slime. I take an involuntary step back trying to keep some space between us, but he follows.
“So you’re looking for a guide?” I ask. It can’t be me. He can’t expect that.
