Ipull the rod back with a violent twist and feel resistance.Gotcha.But as soon as I start reeling the line back in, it goes slack again.
Ugh. This day hadn’t gone much better than yesterday, and even my fishing stinks. It seemed like I’d just woken up and started writing just five minutes ago, but when I noticed I’d been up for hours, I knew I had to take a break. That’s when I headed to a rocky corner of the coast to fish. I’d seen other people fishing here from the cliff by my cabin, and it turns out there’s a small shack that rents out gear.
Thing is, I’ve never fished in the sea. This is nothing like lake fishing. No luck so far.
To make matters worse, I was forced to share my shitty writing progress with Leslie this morning. The first draft of the home page was due, and I didn’t have a choice. The Zoom call I had with her to hear her thoughts felt like pulling teeth.
“It’s missing the … emotional punch,” she told me. “The magic. We want people to go through an entire transformation as they’re reading the website—do you get me?”
I got her. I just don’t know how to make it happen.
I sigh and finish reeling the line in. This is probably it for today. While I’m enjoying having my bare feet on the rocks and the water lapping at my toes, I could do without the fishing part. After all, I always preferred the ‘being on a boat’ part of fishing more than the actual fishing itself.
That, and spending time with Dad.
Our quiet memories on the lake with a fishing rod in our hands are some of my favourite memories with Dad. We both felt uncomfortable with small talk, so neither of us felt forced to say something just to fill the silence. We could spend hours at a time just listening to the quiet lap of the water against the boat in those early hours of the morning.
When one of us did speak, it was to say something real. Like when he’d asked me how I was doing in school, not as a formality, but because he actually wanted to know, deep down, how I was getting along. And whenever I let him know it wasn’t going as well as I wanted, he always had words of encouragement for me. It’s like he always knew what to say.
Those fishing trips became less and less frequent when we moved back from Red Lake to Montreal. Not only were Dad’s work trips longer, but we also had to go out of our way to find a good spot away from the city. Still, it didn’t stop me from asking. And when I asked, we’d go.
But as time went on, Dad spent more and more time in the evenings locked up in my parents’ room. Sometimes, I’d see him for dinner, and that was it. And I could see what it did to Mom, too. She didn’t let it show, but I could tell she was lonely. Even though I couldn’t bring myself to care for them, I’d spend time curled up on the couch next to her as she caught up with her franco TV dramas and folded laundry. Mom didn’t fare well alone.
I head back to the cabin and begrudgingly get back into writing again. Before I know it, a knock on the door jolts me from my work. I glance at the clock—6 p.m. My mood immediately shifts from sour to elated.
This has to be Logan.
I immediately jump to my feet, then cringe as I gaze down at myself, which is ridiculous if I think about it. Logan and I basically grew up together. He saw me in way worse than these sweatshorts and ripped T-shirt. So why is this suddenly making me self-conscious?
I take a deep breath and head to the door, swinging it open with a grin.
“Hey,” Logan says casually as he steps inside, his eyes scanning my outfit. “New fashion statement?”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me. “Shut up. This is every copywriter’s work uniform.”
Logan chuckles as he drops himself into one of the two cushy chairs at the table. “Right. Makes sense. So how’s the writing going?”
I groan as I imitate him and fall back into my own chair—the same one I’ve practically spent all day in, except for that quick fishing stint. “I’m about ready to throw my computer out the window.”
Logan winces. “That bad, huh?”
I nod, throwing my head back with a sigh. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Every time I start to write, it just feels like … I don’t know, like I’m completely empty of anything.”
Logan’s eyes soften and he grabs my hand, squeezing it lightly. The warmth of his skin sends a soft tingle through my body. My heart skips a beat and I’m filled with a newfound rush, like I’ve swallowed a whole colony of bees. It’s comforting yet unsettling at the same time—a strange combination that has me wanting more, even if I don’t know why.
“That’s exactly why you need these outings with me,” he says softly. “You need to get out of your head and get away from the computer for a while. You can’t spend all your time in front of it; you need to take a break every now and then.”
I freeze, mesmerized by his warm gaze. His words feel like a revelation. He’s right—I’m not doing myself any favours if I stay cooped up in this room all day, every day. Even if I take a break or two, I need to widen my horizons a bit more to get this inspiration flowing. That’s why I agreed to his idea in the first place.
Well, that and the fact that I absolutely want to spend more time with him while I’m here.
Logan must sense the shift in my mood because he squeezes my hand again before releasing it and giving me a small smile. My breath hitches.
“So, are you ready for our first outing?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at me expectantly.
My heart flutters as I nod, feeling my face crack into a wide grin. Then I remember what I look like, and I gaze back down at myself. “Umm … I’m gonna need a minute.”
“Sure.” He laughs, then gets up from the chair. “I’ll wait outside.” As he’s just about to shut the door, he peeks his head back inside to tell me: “By the way, you look great. I was just kidding earlier, you know that, right?” And before I can respond, he shuts the door, leaving me alone in my cabin.
