Page 8 of Fishing for Keeps

A week.

"Well," I say, when I can talk. "Then we'd better make it a good week."

I throw everything at it. I'm not proud; I'm a man fishing for keeps, and I intend to use the whole tackle box.

Wednesday, I take her to the overlook where you can see the whole lake at once, and I point out every dock and cove and tell her the story that goes with each one until the sun's gone.

Thursday, at pizza, the crew does my work for me. Rayna sends her home with Ooey Gooey Sticks "for later," Aileen recruits her to design the fishing camp's new logo, Mikki flat-out says "you know this town needs a designer," and Chrissy starts a sentence with "next summer, you and me are—" before catching herself. Josie doesn't correct her. I notice. I notice everything now.

Friday, Liam gets his revenge. He struts up to the rental counter with a sixteen-year-old in tow.

"Trent," he says, "meet my new derby partner. You might remember him from such events as winning the entire Bass Classic."

Tommy Brandt gives me a little wave.

"A ringer," I say, my voice incredulous. "You hired a child ringer."

"His dad signed the form. It's all legal." Liam's grin could power the marina. "Nine years, buddy. You want to break up the team? Fine. Saturday, Tommy and I are taking you down.”

"Want to bet?”

"Absolutely.”

From behind me, Josie's laughing. She's been perched on my counter all afternoon with her laptop, working on the camp logo, and the sight of her there—like she fits, like it's normal—hits me harder than any smack talk.

"We accept," she tells Liam sweetly. "And when we beat you, you're eating your hat."

"Awfully cocky for a woman who can’t fish.”

"I couldn’t fish,” Josie says. “But that was eighteen days ago. Now, I’m pretty damn good.”

“She sure is,” I say, but I’m not really taking about fishing.

That night I walk her to her car, and I don't let go of her hand.

"Come to dinner tomorrow," I say. "Your place. I'll cook. Just you and me and Gus's porch."

She looks up at me for a long moment, and I watch her decide something.

"Okay," she says. "Tomorrow."

Chapter Six

Josie

Trent shows up at six with grocery bags, a portable speaker, and a bouquet of wildflowers he absolutely picked from the field by Route 9, which somehow makes them better.

"For the table," he says, presenting them. "I also brought steaks, corn, and my award-winning potatoes."

"What award?"

"Liam's Mom's Church Cookout, Honorable Mention, 2019. But I don't like to brag."

He cooks on Grandpa's old charcoal grill like he's done it a hundred times, narrating the whole process, making me laugh so hard I have to sit down on the porch steps. We eat as the sun drops behind the tree line, and the lake goes pink, then purple, and the crickets tune up in the dark grass.

After, he finds Grandpa's ancient radio in the kitchen and fiddles with the dial until an old slow song crackles through, and he holds out his hand with exaggerated formality.

"Ma'am. May I."