The Bucket List

17 The Lesson

"You're doing it wrong."

Nicholai's glare pierces through the heat beating down on our shoulders, the salty breeze ruffling his dark hair. I ignore him, flicking another line out into the sea far below our feet.

"How are you so good at this?" He's fiddling with the fishing pole again, tangling the line around his fingers.

Memories nip at my heels. Long hours spent here with the twins, our toes tangled in discarded fishing line, fingers sticky with ice cream. And later, years later, more hours spent in this very same spot, watching the sun dip below the horizon, Larissa's head cradled against my shoulder. 

An infinite, perfect moment.

But all I say is, "It's in the wrist."

Grumbling, Nicholai reaches for the tacklebox between us. "We're out of bait." He delivers this news as though it's some devastating blow.

I analyze him out of the corner of my eye. The pink, sunkissed flush creeping across his cheekbones. White t-shirt sticking to his overheated skin. Legs swinging over the edge of the pier. He looks a lifetime away from the man in the gray suit who spun me around a lavish salon, reduced to no more than a boy eager to catch his first fish. 

"Wait here." I hand him the fishing pole we rented at the tackle shop earlier that morning, before the sun was hot on our backs and the air thick with humidity. He tosses his aside and accepts the new offering eagerly, reeling in the line with a little too much gusto.

"Slow and steady," I warn him, pedaling backward.

He lifts his middle finger in reply.

Laughing, I pad barefoot down the pier. The tackle shop across the road is saltworn and rundown, but it's got a fantastic selection of gear for rent. I finger the bills in my pocket as I shoulder my way inside, a little bell tinkling overhead to signal my arrival. Wooden floorboards creak underfoot as I slip to the back of the shop, but it's a small space. 

Too small to avoid making eye contact with the guy behind the shop's sand-blasted counter.

I recognize him immediately. Keith. Or maybe it's Kyle.

I'm the first to look away, breaking the awkward spell of silence between us. Maybe it's better that I don't know his name.

It's enough to know he's the one Larissa fucked behind my back, shattering my heart and every good memory we'd ever made in this place.

I hurriedly gather more bait, distracted now. There's a girl the next aisle over with an apron just like Kyle's; I catch a glimpse of a dark braid and square-rimmed glasses, and I almost ask if she'll take mercy on me and meet me at the counter so I can avoid Keith or Kyle or whatever the fuck his name is, but that would be ridiculous and I can barely stomach the thought, so I head to the front, arms full of bait and head low, and mumble vague pleasantries at checkout. To his credit, Keith (I'm going with Keith) doesn't seem to know who I am, or maybe he does and he's just trying to be polite. It's not his fault Larissa cheated, I tell myself over and over again.

Easy to say. Harder to swallow.

I'm so in my own head about him that I nearly knock into a passing runner on my way out of the tackle shop. I see a flash of canary yellow shoes. Recognition washes through me, but Mr. Yellow Shoes doesn't once look back.

Sighing, I cradle the bag of bait to my chest and rejoin a scowling Nicholai on the pier. "The fish aren't going to bite with you glaring at them like that," I inform him, tossing the brown paper bag into his lap.

His scowl deepens as he considers the churning water below. "One fish," he vows. "I just want to catch one fish."

I watch him reel in the line. "What item is this?" I ask calmly. Already knowing the answer.