We never made it to the boat, so any plan Bill might have had for tossing me overboard was ruined. My nausea comment in the car might’ve made him think I couldn’t control my gag reflex. Instead, the poor guy had to actually listen to all the verbal vomit I spewed, as if I knew what the hell I was talking about. So, yeah, we talked—openly and honestly. But, to prove we were still men, we didn’t look at each other even once.

“That the best you got?” Bill asked. No, the question wasn’t directed at me. At least I hoped it wasn’t.

“It’s Chilean Sea Bass, and we’re standing on a dock in California,” the fishmonger at the little shop on the pier said flatly. “If you wanted something fresh, then no, it’s not the best thing we got.”

“Why are you selling it, then?”

The guy shrugged. “Tourists. They watch too many cooking shows and think ‘California Cuisine’ only includes Chilean Sea Bass, avocados, and granola. We got those too, if you want ‘em.”

Bill sighed deeply as if it were one of his last breaths. “I need something local. Give me two of them. Biggest ones.” He pointed to another chunk of fish, one that had its head still attached.

I stared into the poor bastard’s dead eye and swore to never eat fish again. If I hadn’t talked Bill out of the whole boat-bonding thing, that could’ve been me.

“How am I supposed to convince my wife I went fishing in the bay if I bring home something Chilean?” he muttered.

The truth hit me when we were waiting for our “catch” to be wrapped in paper and rung up. What? We had to bring home something, or the women would know we hadn’t been fishing. Normally, I would’ve just gone with the we-went-to-a-strip-club-instead excuse, but it didn’t seem right with Lane’s dad. Plus Lane never believed it anyway.

“Got a question for you, Bill. When’s the last time you really talked with your wife?”

“I talk to her every day.”

“Not talk to. Talk with. Completely different. When’s the last time you had an honest conversation about what you both want from life?”

He scratched his chin. “Only young people ask that kind of question.”

I grabbed the fish, thanked the guy behind the counter, and walked to the register. “No offense, but that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, Bill. Unless you are on your deathbed or are one of the nonexistent people who actually have everything they want in every way, you should be asking yourself that question. People are either living or waiting to die. I could be wrong—it’s happened once or twice—but you don’t seem like the waiting-to-die type to me.”

He seemed more like the type who was about to smack me. It had happened a lot more than once or twice.

“Am I wrong about you, Bill?”

He glared at me for another moment. I took the opportunity to slide my credit card from my wallet and set it on the counter next to our big catch. He nabbed the card and gave it back to me, reaching for his own wallet.

“We gonna fight about this?” I asked, shoving my card at the cashier before he could.

“My daughter is an artist living in one of the most expensive cities in the country. Keep your money and use it to take her out once in a while. For something better than a burger.”

“She really hasn’t told you anything about me, has she?”

He froze in place, thinking about something I wasn’t privy to long enough for the cashier to swipe my card and hand me a receipt to sign.

Shit. How badly did I offend him? And why? And what should I do now? “You okay, Bill?” If this trip ended with me putting Lane’s dad into the hospital over a stupid comment, she’d never forgive me. I glanced at his heart, then his left arm. If anything on television was real, I knew the signs of a heart attack.

I dropped the pen and reached for him, just in case he fell over. “Bill, you still with me? Say something.”

He blinked. Then again. But I’d need words before I felt safe.

“Nothing.”

“No, something. Say something. I need to know you’re okay.”

“She doesn’t talk to me.”

How bad is it to be thankful someone is only having a nervous breakdown?

“Who you talking about, Bill?”

“Laney. Jane. My daughter didn’t tell me anything about you. What I know I know because she told her mother. And that’s just about all Jane ever says to me—what Laney’s doing. My wife and daughter don’t talk to me because I don’t listen. Because I…” His eyes glistened with the realization, and then he looked straight at me and silently asked for help. “What if it’s too late?”

In a moment neither of us would ever forget or mention to another living soul, we connected.

“It’s going to be okay, sir. Let’s go home and make it right.”