There it is.
A little fish, flopping wildly in the shallows.
Brooks moves first, crouching beside it. With practiced ease, he reaches down and secures it, his fingers working to free the hook from its mouth.
I set the pole down and hurry over. "What kind of fish is it?"
Brooks glances up, his mouth curving into a smirk. "Crappie."
I raise an eyebrow. "You’re lying."
He huffs out a laugh. "Swear on my life, Ellie. Crappie."
"It felt like a thirty-pound catfish," I huff.
Brooks just laughs.
"You want to release it?"
I stare at him, unsure if he’s messing with me, before rolling my eyes. "Fine."
He holds out the fish, its greenish-brown scales glistening in the sun, translucent fins flicking in protest. I hesitate, then cup my hands together. Brooks carefully transfers it to my palms, his fingers brushing against mine for a half-second too long.
I swallow.
Turning toward the water, I kneel, submerging my hands in the cool lake. The fish wriggles once—twice—then, with a flick of its tail, it slips from my grasp and disappears beneath the surface.
I exhale, watching it vanish.
Brooks leans down beside me, forearms resting on his knees. "Not bad for someone who spent the whole afternoon scaring the fish away."
I elbow him. "Shut up."
He just chuckles, nudging me right back.
I spend the next hour not looking at Brooks.
Which is difficult, considering he’s still on the dock, reeling in fish like it’s nothing. Everything Brooks does seems effortless. Fitting in with my family. Unhooking fish with ease. Existing.
I don’t know why I never noticed before.
Or maybe I did, I just never let myself commit it to memory.
Eventually, a still shirtless Brooks makes his way over, cracking open the ice chest. I risk a peek through my sunglasses. He’s all tanned skin and defined muscle, his abs obnoxiously well-defined as he grabs a bottle of water.
Then, just totortureme, he tilts his head back, taking a long, slow drink.
"You thirsty?" Brooks asks, voice casual, like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.
I swallow hard. "Uh, nope."
He smirks, stretching his arms over his head, his biceps flexing in a way that should be illegal.
"You ready to pack up? If you wanna make it back to the hospital before it gets too dark, we should head out soon."
I force myself to nod, ignoring how dry my mouth suddenly feels. "Yeah. Good plan."
I reel in my line, hand him the fishing pole, and break down my chair, tossing it into the truck bed. Brooks, of course, lifts the ice chest like it weighs nothing and slides it in without breaking a sweat. I don’t know why that annoys me, but it does.
