I knew Rory missed it, and Angie did too, but I didn’t. I saw that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth just before he shook his head once. “I … I’m not sure.”
“Fisher’s not a crossword puzzle guy. But he did win a spelling bee. Right, babe? I think your mom told me that once.” Angie tried to demonstrate her expertise.
It thrilled me to know that he shared that secret with me and not her. And his memory might have cherry-picked things from his brain, but not the crossword puzzles because I saw it, the twitch, even his eyes changed a tiny bit into something along the lines of curiosity or satisfaction.
“A cruciverbalist is a person who enjoys crossword puzzles or constructs them,” I said.
Fisher …
That look. Was it the look he gave me the very first time I told him about my pastime? Was that the look I missed? Was that the moment he knew I was more than just an eighteen-year-old girl with freakishly long arms and unlikely to wear socks with my tennis shoes?
I wasn’t trying to take him away from Angie. I was only trying to find my naked fisherman.
My naked fisherman did enjoy crossword puzzles.
My naked fisherman wouldn’t marry someone just because his family thought it was the right thing to do.
My naked fisherman … well, I didn’t know if he still existed.
But I sure wanted to find out.
“No offense, but it sounds like a nerdy hobby.”
“Fisher, that’s not nice.” Angie, bless her ignorant heart, came to my rescue.
“Reese’s dad used to construct puzzles.” Rory played the middle ground. Very matter-of-fact. She wasn’t trying to make anyone feel bad.
Fisher nodded several times. “Your ex-husband died. Right?”
Wow.
Fisher remembered that, but not me.
“Yes. Shortly before Reese turned fifteen.”
“Well, I’m on a roll today. Another asshole remark from me. Maybe I should just take my meds and go to sleep.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’m sure someday I’ll find my nerdy, cruciverbalist soul mate. And he will find my affinity for clues and words to be endearing. Maybe even sexy.” I winked.
A wink.
For my naked fisherman.
Then it happened again. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Yes, Fisher. You’re my cruciverbalist soul mate, you stubborn ass with a broken brain.
“I’m sure he’s out there. Good luck.” Fisher kept his gaze on me.
“He’s probably in hiding. Not all cruciverbalists are brave enough to admit their passion to the world.”
“Mmm …” he hummed while giving me an easy nod.
I had his attention.
Not his memory.
Not his engagement ring.
Not his bed.
Shaky ground at best, but I took it.
“Well, goodnight, you two,” Rory said as I followed her to the door.
“Thanks again,” Angie replied.
“Yes. Thanks,” Fisher added.
Chapter Six
Dear Lost Fisherman,
I just got home after spending weeks in Denver making sure you’d be okay. You don’t remember me. That’s fine. Maybe it’s best if you don’t.
After five years, the world’s shortest engagement, college, a tattoo, and some serious sinning, I thought I was over you. I found my passion and followed it. I gave my virginity to a worthy man who might have cherished it more than I did. And I found my fucking voice.
Then I saw you. And it was …
Nine across: Eleven letters. Hint: A calamity.
Catastrophe.
I found it therapeutic to write down my thoughts and feelings. It was the easiest way to let go of them. It had been years, not since my father died, that I felt the need to journal my thoughts. But losing Fisher brought out everything.
Anxiety.
Unsettled emotions.
Destructive hope.
Loss of direction.
I gave myself some time. Some time to sort out my feelings before taking a job anywhere. I let my resurrected naked fisherman emotions sort themselves out.
Rory kept me updated on Fisher during my break for perspective. It didn’t help my perspective.
Rory: Fisher’s doing better. A little stir crazy.
Rory: Fisher can’t sleep. Terrible anxiety.
Rory: Fisher tried to go back to work today. Angie is not happy.
Rory: Feeling so bad for Angie. It’s going to be a long road for her and Fisher.
Most of my replies were short like, “Sorry to hear that,” or “That’s too bad.”
Two weeks later, Rory called me.
“Hi.”
“I found you a job,” she said.
I laughed. “What makes you think I’m still looking for a job?”
“Because it’s two in the afternoon on a Thursday and you answered your phone on the first ring. And if you had a job, you would have told me by now.”
“Speaking of jobs, don’t you still have one?”
“My next client canceled at the last minute. Anyway, speaking of clients and jobs … this morning I had a new client. Know what she does?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” I said.
“She’s a midwife. She works in a clinic with three other midwives. They practice midwifery and all kinds of women’s healthcare. I’m actually going to start seeing her. She tests for hormone imbalances and stuff like that. I could use a good balancing. I told her about you, and she said she’d love to talk to you about possibly working with her, assisting in the clinic and during labors because she just lost her nurse whose husband got transferred to another state for his job. I told her I’d call you right away. I also gave her your contact information, so expect a call. She’s really excited that you assisted a midwife in Thailand for nearly a year.”