(Braden)
“And you can bury me beneath the deep blue skies of Texas.”
—AARON WATSON, “TEXAS LULLABY”
When my line jerks again, signaling that I have yet another bass hooked, I actually laugh out loud. This morning’s fishing trip with Trey has been borderline absurd. We arrived at the lake at seven, had Trey’s little Ranger boat in the water by seven thirty, and had our first hits ten minutes after that. By nine we both had our limit, but kept at it catch-and-release. I’d never tell her this, but if Amber weren’t already worth the drive down here, the bass fishing would be. I’ll just add it to the list of things I could get used to about Texas—like the barbeque, which is every bit as good as they claim, the water that is still warm enough for paddleboarding even into the fall, the used bookstores you can get lost in for hours, and the beautiful blonde who gave me a sleepy smile when I kissed her goodbye this morning.
God bless Texas, y’all.
I reel in my latest catch, unhook him, and return him to the water quickly. The midday heat means we’re finally seeing a break in the action, so I set my pole aside and dig around in the cooler sitting by my feet to grab a beer. Trey reels in and follows my lead, rustling through the ice and extracting his own beer. He inspects the other cooler contents before letting out a snort.
“I think I have you to thank for our lunch options today. Normally, when Amber and I come out here together, all she does is slap together a few PB&Js. These fancy-looking subs must be her attempt to impress you by taking a stab at sandwich artistry.” He takes another peek in the cooler. “And there are cookies . . . which look suspiciously homemade.”
I tip my ball cap down to better shade my face from the sun and take a sip of my beer.
“I’m the sandwich artist. The cookies I made a few days ago because your sister was threatening to buy a bag of Chips Ahoy!, and I couldn’t let that happen. She was in charge of packing the cooler, that’s it. Claims she has a patent-worthy system for layering the ice, and I decided not to challenge her on that.”
Trey chuckles. “Jesus. How in the hell did you two happen?”
The question is clearly rhetorical given that he’s staring at the shimmering water while shaking his head, so I offer nothing in return. Not that I could explain how Amber and I happened, anyway. Something about us might make sense on paper, but it took us a while to find the proper translation in person, and now that we have, I’m working hard to avoid overthinking it. Trey takes a long slug off of his beer, swallows, then turns his attention to me.
“I have no smooth segue here, so let’s just get it out there, yeah?”
I nod, rest my arms on my knees and lean forward, my beer still clasped in one hand. Trey mirrors my posture.
“She’s not as tough as she seems,” he announces.
I resist telling him that I’ve already suspected as much. He knows her better than I do, though, which means if he’s offering a few insights, I’d be stupid not to listen. Trey looks over my shoulder to the water.
“When our parents died, our uncle Cal was the only relative around who would take us in, but he wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you’d look at and think of as a reliable guardian. I mean, he was, he just didn’t fit the part. Think Archie Bunker meets Jeremiah Johnson meets John Wayne, but with a backwoods Texas accent and missing one of his front teeth—that was Cal.”
My eyes go wide. Trey grins.
“Exactly. So he had to go to court to keep us out of foster care. But it was my sister who really saved us. She took the stand at ten years old, sitting on a stack of phone books so she could look the judge right in the eye. She sat there, with her hair in these cute pigtails and wearing a totally girly pink dress, and told this old geezer judge that she knew what was best for me, for her, and for us. Then she told him if they split us up and put us into the system, she would do whatever it takes to fix that.” Trey laughs softly. “Basically, she looked like a menacing Strawberry Shortcake with a vengeful side. I think he was scared stiff because he didn’t even ask what she meant by ‘fix that.’ ”
I conjure up an image of Amber then and it brings a half smile to my face. The same hair, the same sparkle, and the same blue eyes that can melt you or skewer you as she sees fit. But the smile fades when I consider how much pressure she was shouldering then, trying to ensure she and Trey had the best future they could given their shitty circumstances. And despite knowing even at that age Amber could shoulder whatever came her way, the fact that she had to is hard to accept.
Trey continues with a sigh. “That was Amber hustling, round one. Not much has changed since then. Scrambling and busting ass is what she does. She hustled to keep us together, did the same to get out of the town we grew up in, and the same to get her show.”
He shoots me a knowing look. “Hustling” would never be the word I use, but I’ve seen her in action, so I get what he means. I give him a nod.
“But she also thinks that’s a good way to protect herself. That she can just hustle her way out of anything, unscathed.” Trey takes the final draw on his beer, crushes the can, and tosses it on the floor of the boat. “But losing her show? If she can’t scrabble her way out of this, it will hit her hard. The last thing she needs in her life right now is something or someone else that she can’t count on.”
The “someone” remark sounds like an opening, so I take it. “Look, Trey—”
“She’s soft inside,” he cuts in and presses on. “She’s got this loving heart, you know? The woman still does my laundry, and I let her, even though I can obviously do it myself. But she’s been taking care of me since I was seven, and that’s a hard habit for someone with a big heart to let go of. I just want to know if you understand that.”
He pauses—finally. I think he just said more in the last five minutes than he did this morning and all day yesterday, combined. I answer him quickly, before he decides to start in again.
“Yes, I know that.”
“Good. Because this isn’t her norm with guys. By this point she’s usually given them a speech about why her show makes it hard to have a long-term relationship, while blinding them with her smile and sending them on their way. But instead she’s parading you around for her friends to meet, like she’s invested in this going somewhere. So tell me you feel the same way, that you aren’t jerking her around.”
I’m definitely not jerking her around, but giving Trey anything more than that as an answer is tough. On the drive here, I questioned what we’re doing and where we are going, but I squashed the thoughts as quickly as they came. Too much, too soon. If I started to consider real life with all of its sticky practicalities—living states apart, her career, and my shitty history at keeping a woman happy—then this trip might seem like a worthless waste of vacation days I don’t even have.
I let out a sigh. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” His face goes slack. “I tell you to say that you aren’t jerking my sister around, and your answer is I don’t know?”
“Don’t drown me in the lake just yet.” I raise my hands up. “I’m definitely not jerking her around. But beyond that? I can’t say. She and I haven’t had that conversation.”
Trey doesn’t look as if my answer suits him, so I try again, steadying my eyes on his.
“Look, when she came down off the trail after missing that elk, I saw her hurting. And it tore me up. So, I can tell you this: I’m not interested in doing anything to cause her hurt. Ever.”
Trey considers my answer silently, squinting my way. Then he digs into the cooler for two more beers.
“Fair enough.” He hands me a beer and cracks the tab on his.
Fair enough.
Easy for him to say.
He’s not the one who just realized he’s got a big-ass question mark in his life—and he doesn’t like it.