21 · Lucy
Friday night, Simon is our designated driver, but I don’t drink, either. I need to keep an eye on Hannah, a firefly in the darkening night, flitting from one group to another.
She’s having such a good time. I wish I could let go like she does, let myself be so carefree and loose. She and Guthrie stand in the lake and splash water at each other. Guthrie seems lighter, happier, too, with Hannah around.
“Hey.”
It’s Simon, his brow furrowed. He puts his hands on my shoulders, turns me into him.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but bends toward me without hesitation and kisses me.
It’s sweet and smoky and sends a shiver down my spine. I reach my arms up around his neck and then he’s closer, warm, soft. Sweet.
He pulls away after a moment. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s perfect.”
I bury my face in his chest, close my eyes, and let myself believe it.
The next afternoon, Clayton is in the living room with Dad when I get home from the resort.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Nice to see you, too, sis.” He tips a bottle of beer to his lips and takes a long drink. “Tomorrow’s Father’s Day. I thought I’d go out fishing with the old man.”
Dad grins and they clink their bottles together.
“You’re letting him drink?” I say, my hands on my hips. Dad shrugs.
“It’s one beer, Lucy, lighten up.” Clayton scowls at me. He can get away with anything. “Do you have your period or something?”
So typical.
Dad shakes his head. “I sure haven’t missed all this bickering.”
“Grow up, Clayton,” I say.
Clay gives me the finger. “You’re not letting her come fishing with us tomorrow, are you, Dad?”
I stomp up the stairs to my room. Two more years. Two more years before I can run away like he did.
After dinner, I hear them arguing.
“I’m in a tight spot,” Clay says. “I could really use some help.”
I tiptoe to the top of the stairs to hear more clearly. I’m expecting Dad to shell out the cash, whatever Clayton needs.
“You’re in a tight spot?” Dad says. “You drove all this way to tell me you’re in a tight spot? You’ve got to be kidding me. Your mom and I are working around the clock, Clay, to pay for your education. And then I hear that you get an incomplete? Lucy’s right. It’s time for you to grow up.”
My jaw nearly hits the floor.
“C’mon, Dad, give me a break here.”
“No. There isn’t any money to give you, Clayton, although that’s beside the point. If you need money so badly, maybe it’s time for you to get a job.”
“Oh, terrific,” Clay says. “I come home for this? For nothing?”
I hear a door slam, and I go back to my room. I don’t get the door closed in time before Clayton walks by.
“Unbelievable,” he says.
I turn to face him. “No, you’re unbelievable. You came home to see Dad on Father’s Day, right? No? Nice, Clay. Real nice.”
“Shut it,” he growls at me. He goes into his room and is back seconds later, his backpack over his shoulder. “I’m outta here.”
I’m not surprised at how Clay acted, but Dad’s words stunned me. He’s always given in to Clay, always let things slide with him because he was older, he was the boy, his buddy. And I’ve felt like I needed to be extra good to make up for Clayton. It’s not fair, but that’s the way it is. I’m amazed that Dad finally stood up to him, told him no.
A few minutes later Dad comes up and knocks on my door.
“Hey,” he says. “So you heard all that, then, that business with your brother?”
I nod.
“He take off?”
I nod again.
“What do you say you and me go out and catch a few fish tomorrow? I’ve already got Daniel’s boat.”
I smile. “I’d like that.” I think about Simon, how he’s never been fishing, that his dad always promised to take him but was always too busy at the store. “Do you mind if Simon comes with? He’s never fished before. And his dad—well, his parents have been divorced for a while.”
Dad nods. “Sure, kiddo. That’ll be fun.”
When I pick up my phone to text Simon, there’s a message from him: Miss u.
I decide to ask him to go fishing with us in person. I find my flip-flops by the front door and cross the driveway to Simon’s house.
Sunday morning, Simon comes over after breakfast, bouncing on his heels in excitement. Dad hands him one of Clayton’s old rods, and we head down the hill to the dock and Daniel’s Alumacraft.
I flip up a seat cushion. “Here’s your PFD,” I tell him, handing him a camouflage vest.
“My what?”
“Personal flotation device.” I slip on Clare’s yellow one and demonstrate how to snap it shut and tighten the straps.
“Oh, a life jacket. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out on a boat. Years, actually.” He laughs, an uncomfortable, awkward sound. “I guess this isn’t my thing, really.”
He’s not kidding. After we drop anchor, he struggles with the tackle and the reel and panics every time he gets a bite. But my dad is patient with him, like he was when he taught us, and eventually Simon fumbles through the process himself.
“So how’s Halcyon Lake treating you and your mom, Simon?” Dad asks.
Simon bites his lower lip as he hooks a night crawler and casts out. “So far, so good.”
I’m nervous for him—anxious that he won’t catch anything and be disappointed in himself, worried that he and my dad won’t have anything in common.
“You get to many Twins games?” It was only a matter of time before my dad brought up baseball.
“Never been. Not much of a sports fan, I guess.”
Dad clears his throat. “Huh.” There’s a tug on Dad’s line, though, so he turns his attention to the fish, which turns out to be a nice-size rock bass.
“Uh, are that thing’s eyes red?” Simon leans closer to the fish with muddled bronze scales. Its harsh red eye against the whitish mouth is like something out of a horror movie.
“Yep. Pretty little thing, isn’t it?”
I laugh at the look of disgust that crosses Simon’s face.
Dad leans over the side of the boat to drop the fish back into the lake.
“You’re not keeping it?”
“Nah, we’ll let someone else have a little fun with him.” Dad casts out again. “So, what do you do if you’re not into sports?”
“Painting. I used to take piano lessons.” His bobber sinks a little and he leans over, excited, but then, nothing. “Shoot. I watch a lot of movies. I’m kind of a James Bond aficionado.”
“You like double-oh-seven?” There’s excitement in Dad’s voice, and I know exactly what he’ll say next. “Who’s your favorite Bond?”
I hope that Simon gets this right.
“Well, I have to say that I’m really impressed with Daniel Craig, and you can’t go wrong with the classic Sean Connery, but honestly? My favorite has always been Roger Moore.”
Dad turns to Simon and grins. “That’s what I like to hear.”
There’s a tug on Simon’s line so hard, he’s pulled forward and nearly loses his balance. I set down my rod and move to help him.
“Easy.” I put my hand over his on the reel, and when we land a northern pike into the net, a smile spreads across his face so wide, I can’t help but match it.