Page 90 of The Roads We Follow

He tells me to anchor my feet on the shore as he positions himself behind me and places the fly rod in my hands.

“I couldn’t write this scene in a book, ya know.”

“Why not?”

“The whole man-tutoring-a-woman thing is too cliché,” I say with exactly none of the nonchalance I’m trying for as my body hums to life at the feel of his embrace. His arms lock mine in place as his hands fold over my fingers to hug the rod.

“I have faith your imagination could do it justice.” His breath sweeps the sensitive spot directly below my right ear, and all I can think about is how close his lips are to my skin.

“Relax your shoulders,” he instructs gently. “There you go. Now hold the rod steady. Your eyes should sweep the water from left to right. Good, now find your own rhythm.” We remain this way for several minutes as he works the slack in the line, instructing me on how to do the same while I actively work to keep the fire in my core contained.

I tangle the line several times, and it’s an effort to right my mistakes, but Micah is never impatient with me. He simply tells me to try again, and I do.

And then, we get a bite. A big one.

All at once, the slow rhythm of casting and waiting is turned up to maximum speed. I start to duck away and allow him to take the lead, not wanting to forfeit our catch because of my clumsy handling, but Micah won’t have it. He talks me through every step, and though there’s a struggle going on between fish and fisherwoman, Micah is a calm, focused, and steady teacher.

When the fight is over and the victory is ours, Micah turns to me with a wink and says, “Cliché or not, you just caught us our first trout for dinner, Raegan Lynn.”

I squirm a bit when he makes me hold the twelve-inch trout for a picture because “All fishermen need proof of their catches.”

And then Micah squishes his cheek to mine, holds the fish up between us, and tells me to take the selfie on the count of three. The picture is absolutely ridiculous, and yet I adore everything about it. I’m pretty sure, in time, I could easily adore everything about Micah, too.

“Perfect,” he says right before he pockets the phone and begins to prep the fish near the water. “We’ll need a few more fish to feed our crew. That is, if there’s anybody left at camp when we return.”

“Honestly”—I shrug—“your guess on that is as good as mine.”

For the next hour, I watch from a boulder in the shade on the water’s edge as Micah manages to catch us another three trout, and once again I have that feeling like I wish I could freeze time and come back here again. I reflect on his mother’s wise words and askmyself some hard questions regarding the time I’ve been given. Not just on this road trip or even in regard to the book I’m currently writing, but with the people I’ve been given, too.

Once he’s finished cleaning the catches, Micah places the flayed trout inside the basket thing he calls a creel, then squats near the water to scrub at his hands in the moving stream until his fingertips blanch white from the cold. When he rises and stalks toward me, sunlight threads through his cinnamon-brown hair and glistens off his tanned skin. Every muscle in his arms and legs is flexed, and it feels every bit like a fictional scene coming to life.

Only this is not fiction.

When he’s close enough to reach for my hand, he pulls me up from the boulder and steadies me at my waist. His eyes are focused on my mouth. “Is it okay with you if I collect my reward now?”

With the nature soundtrack of a babbling brook behind us and the beauty of this hidden valley on our every side, our lips find each other as if this exact spot was mapped out for us long ago.

We kiss until our lips feel tender with the kind of idyllic delirium only achieved by true connection. We kiss like it’s the beginning of a story we’ve barely begun to write and have no intention to rush. We kiss like two people who were destined to meet despite the generation of regret that kept them apart.

The temperature has already begun to drop as we make our way back to the campsite just after six. Micah’s grip on my hand remains firm as we approach the cutoff at the path, and I feel his gaze skim my profile. I wonder if he, like me, is already counting down until our next private moment. If Adele has managed to convince our entire crew to join her on the bus overnight, then perhaps the wait won’t be as long as I fear.

I nudge him gently. “You can’t keep looking at me like that, Micah.”

“Like what?” He feigns innocence.

“Like you’re two seconds away from kissing me senseless behind Yurt Two.”

“Huh,” he chuckles. “And here I thought my poker face was among the best in the world.”

“Let me assure you, it’s not.” My laugh is cut short by the change in the wind.Smoke. “Do you smell that?”

“Kent probably has a campfire going up at his place.”

But the closer we get to the yurts, the more intense the scent becomes. And then we hear the voices—all female and all familiar.

“Shhh ... I think they’re coming,” an unidentifiable relative announces.

We both eye each other questioningly.

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