The Truth About That Summer

forty-seven

"When we go fishin' with my Daddy, we always listen to music." Finn holds his rod like a sword in front of him, the little hook dangling dangerously close to Luke's ass.

Wouldn't it be funny - maybe even hysterical - if it got caught and tore his pants? Or poked him right in one of his sarcastic cheeks?

Standing upright, Luke nudges the end of the pole in the opposite direction - shame - and adjusts his ball cap over his eyes, squinting in the sun.

"Well. You're fishin' with Uncle Luke today, bud. And Uncle Luke thinks it's better to fish without music."

"Why?"

I grin, observing their exchange and pushing my arms through the sleeves of my sweatshirt.

"Because fish like it quiet."

I peer over the side of the low bridge, raised just above a shallow bit of the ocean. The sand beneath us, on either side of the shore pushing in, is littered with other fishermen, and next to us, some scatter over the bridge.

Can the fish hear music from up here?

"Plus," Luke unloads a cooler and tackle box from the back of his truck. "You asked Miss Dylan to spend the day with you. It'd be rude not to talk to her, you know."

Finn plops down on the cooler, deliberating as Luke pulls two longer poles from the back.

Luke's deft fingers pull at a tangle in the line and Finn asks, "Rude?"

"Mhm." Luke grunts, handing me a fishing pole. "Hold, please." Then addressing his nephew, "Like when Granny tells you you aren't using your good manners."

"Oh." Finn's forehead puckers until he looks at me. "Sorry, Miss Dylan."

"That's okay." I look away as Luke puts live bait on our hooks, the squirmy, muddy worms seeming to wiggle in pain no matter how many times I've heard they don't feel a thing. "My Grams always reminds me to mind my manners, too."

Finn grins, raising his brows at me in an expression that seems too mature for his young face. One that says, can you believe the stuff we have to put up with, with those two?

A whirring noise buzzes past my ear and when I jump, I'm met with a smug, Luke Henson grin.

"Sure you remember how, Dyl?" He chuckles, reeling steadily with his right hand, his line landing an impressive several yards ahead.

"Of course I do." I bite my lip nervously, my fingers vaguely familiar with where they're supposed to go.

And maybe somewhere, deep down, buried with memories of Casey and the boat and colorful lures, I do remember how.

But I still pay incredibly close attention as Finn, ever so patient and amazingly sweet, gives me a thorough demonstration on casting.

"Hungry yet, bud?" Luke peers down at Finn, walking between us, each of his hands high above his head to hold one of Luke's and one of mine.

"Yup!" Finn does a little happy dance. "Hot dogs, hot dogs, hot dogs!"

I laugh. When you're little, small things are big things. A hot dog for lunch is special, a day fishing is an adventure, everything is always spectacular.

I miss that and Finn helps me to remember.

We managed a few hours of fishing before the sun broke through the clouds, beating down with too much intensity for our SPF and dry mouths.

The trip was successful, even - more-so for Finn and Luke than me. The guys caught mainly strippers, some larger than others, all with the same, slimy, silvery-grey scales. And every time, they tossed them back into the sea, only holding them long enough for a quick picture for Laura.