The Lost Fisherman (Fisherman 2)

“Well, you two played it last night, so I’ll play it with the birthday girl tonight.” Fisher took a bite of his pancakes and grinned at me. “Do you want to play with me tonight, Reese?”

My chewing slowed. He said that. Yes, he sure did. Rory paid no attention to his comment. But Rose choked on a bite of her pancake.

“You okay, babe?” Rory asked her.

Rose patted her chest several times and nodded. “F-fine.”

After swallowing my bite, I smirked at Rose while answering Fisher. “That sounds fun. I’d love to play with you tonight.”

Rose’s face looked like a ripe red apple, and there was nothing she could do to stop us. And Fisher had no idea she knew. He thought our innuendos were solely between the two of us.

“I’m not going to go easy on you. I’m pretty competitive. I like to be on top at the end.”

Again, Rose coughed and Rory handed her a bottled water. “Drink. And chew your food better.” Rory shifted her attention to Fisher. “Don’t get too cocky and underestimate Reese. She has a competitive streak too. I can see her winning … being on top instead of you. So no pouting tomorrow.”

By that point, Rose had her head bowed, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. I felt certain she was silently chanting, “Make them stop!”

But all that mattered to me was Fisher and I were going to play.

Chapter Twenty-One

Before I left Texas to reunite with Rory, I knew three things.

One: I wasn’t ever going to drink or do drugs.

Two: No sex before marriage.

Three: I would think about God first in all my decisions.

At twenty-four, I knew nothing.

After another group hike, lunch, and taking a million pictures, we started a fire for dinner, and then we drank too much. The conversation took a turn because of me. Someone should have cut me off earlier.

“Have you ever told Fisher how he loved Angie?” I asked, picking at the label to my beer bottle. I didn’t even like beer that much—that was how much I’d had to drink.

“What?” Rory said.

“I mean … everyone says how much he loved her. Maybe if someone told him why they thought that … like … what specifically did he do to make you think he loved her? Then he might remember.”

I had no idea alcohol could spark a self-destructive case of jealousy. Yet there I was … intoxicated and jealous.

Rory glanced over at Rose. “He sent her flowers.”

Rose nodded. “They were cuddly …” She laughed, buzzed like the rest of us. “Is cuddly a word?” Rose laughed more.

“He took her to lunch a lot,” Rory added.

“Sometimes you took her for rides on your motorcycle.” Rose shifted her attention to Fisher.

I glanced over at him.

He nursed his beer, gaze on the fire as if he wasn’t hearing any of the conversation.

“The four of us spent so many nights in the screened-in porch just talking about life. Fisher said he wanted two kids. Angie wanted four. They compromised on three.” Rory grinned at Fisher.

Still … he showed no response other than to narrow his eyes a bit as if he was trying to make sense of what they were saying about him.

Did it still feel like someone else’s life? A biography that wasn’t his?

“And after Angie’s mom died, Fisher just … did everything. He helped take care of her mom’s property. He practically planned the funeral. Moved Angie into his house. Cooked for her for … weeks while she grieved her mom. I wish you could remember, Fisher. I really do.” Rory frowned.

Fisher stood. “I’m going to bed.” He didn’t look at me or anyone as he tossed his bottle into a bin in the back of his truck before wandering into the woods to pee.

Rose shook her head. “I don’t think we jogged his memory. I think he’s miserable.”

Rory stood and stretched. “Miserable? That’s a strong word.”

“It’s not. It’s the right word, trust me.” Rose started to collapse the chairs.

I helped her load them into the truck.

“You two still going to play mancala?” Rory handed me the game. “It’s late.” She laughed. “And we’ve all had too much to drink. But whatever …” She hugged me. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“It’s been a good day. Love you, birthday girl.” Rose hugged me and kissed my cheek. Then she whispered in my ear, “He’s not in a good mood. Let him be tonight.”

I didn’t say anything. I just gave a single nod to let her know I heard her.

After they found a spot to pee and retired to their tent, I planted my ass on the ground by the fire. When Fisher returned, he sat next to me, both of us with our knees bent and our arms resting on them.

“If it’s January …” I whispered. “Then we wait for January. I can’t …” I shook my head slowly. “Do this …”