“I don’t have waders. You need waders for fly fishing.”
I beckon to her, and she follows me to the closet by the bathroom.
“Luke said he left a couple in the closet.”
I open the door and…success.
“Hopefully these will fit you,” I say as I pull out the smaller size and hold it up to Emery. “Luke said his parents fly fish, so he hoped his mom’s waders would fit.”
Emery digs her teeth into her bottom lip adorably.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen her truly nervous. “I can teach you how to fish.”
“I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into.” She stops biting her lip and laughs. “I’m good at plenty of things. Tennis? Check. Bowling? Check. But fishing? My dad tried to teach me several times. I can honestly say it is something I genuinely suck at. Even my dad agreed. Andthat’s saying something because he usually at least tries to be supportive of his only child.”
I break into a laugh. “Come on. Let’s try. If it doesn’t work, we’ll have a picnic lunch instead.”
“That sounds more like my speed, but I’m game to try.”
“That’s my girl.”
Shit. The phrase just popped out of my mouth.My girl.
Emery’s eyes flash with what I assume is surprise, but she smooths her expression over with a friendly smile. A casual smile. Just like we’d promised we’d do.
I turn away and go about putting on my waders.
But my mind is a mess.
Because there I went word vomiting again.
I can’t seem to stop saying shit out loud whenever Emery’s around. Whether I’m talking about my dad or how I feel about Emery, my normally locked-down mouth has had a mind of its own since I met her.
We dress, gather the fishing poles and bait along with a picnic blanket and basket filled with lunch courtesy of Wild Ranch, and head for the lake.
An hour later, I have a sense of what Emery’s dad might have felt when he tried to teach his daughter how to fly fish.
She can’t do it.
I don’t know why.
She’s coordinated, athletic, smart, and she knows exactly what she’s supposed to do. The issue is that her body and brain don’t seem to want to cooperate with the fishing pole. Or with her waders, which she struggles in like they’re a strait jacket rather than protecting her from the elements.
When she finally flings her fishing rod onto the bank in frustration, I fall back onto the grass and laugh my ass off.
She joins me on the bank with a hefty sigh. “See what I mean now?”
I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “I kind of do. Italmost seems impossible you’d struggle this much at anything.”
“You’re sweet. But I fear we’ve found a point of contention. It’s only been a few days, but you now know the truth—I am terrible at what you do for a living.”
“Babe, I don’t fly fish.”
“I know that, of course, but fly fishing would fall underneath the category of fishing, and so would being a fisherman with a boat in the Atlantic.”
“I guess so, but they’re really very different from one another.”
“Could you do fly fishing competitions? You’re really good.”
