Page 41 of Grown-Up Second Chance

Tension eased from my shoulders. No one demanded anything from me right now. Joe was content in his world, and I was satisfied watching him. Although I’d been unable to define it when I was a teen, there had always been something incredibly masculine about Joe. It was a quiet trait with no need to boast itself with bulging muscles, sexual conquests, or vulgarity.

His hair had thinned, and his forehead elongated, but they added to the character of his deep laugh lines.

All in all, he was a good-looking man.

And I shouldn’t care a bit.

But I didn’t seem to be able to stop staring.

I pulled out my phone and took some pictures of him. As we traveled apart, I’d want to revisit the memory of a time when everything seemed right with my particular world.

Tearing myself away from the view, I stood and wandered the riverbank, taking pictures of flowers and scenes around me. I was even able to catch a shot of the shy deer.

I tested the water. Joe had been right, it wasn’t icicle cold like most of the trout streams in Montana. The water was placid, less likely to knock me to my knees. I may as well go in.

After putting my phone next to Joe’s on the bank, I cautiously waded into the river, careful not to examine my motives for doing so. It certainly wasn’t to learn to fish. Once he left my life, I wasn’t going to dash to a store and buy a rod and tackle.

“You decided to join me,” he said.

“Figured I’d look at the pro up close and personal.”

“Far from a pro. I’ve been casting for a good twenty minutes and not even a nibble.”

“You still look like you know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, you’ve been rating my casting skills?”

“Something like that,” I said, averting my gaze to the end of the line which was bobbing up and down. “Why is it doing that?”

“Because a fish is nibbling.” He shifted the rod back and forth gently.

Suddenly, there was a splash, and the fish took the bait.

As Joe fought the fish for control, he let the line spin out, then pulled it back toward him. Every time the fish made a run for it, there was less line pulled until finally he was close enough for Joe to net him.

“Beautiful,” he said as he got the fish back in the water and worked the hook from its mouth. The fish immediately darted off.

“Doesn’t that hurt him?” I asked.

“According to most people, no.” Joe shrugged. “But no one’s been able to get a clear answer from the fish. We’ve always thought catch and release caused no harm, but now some scientists are questioning that as well.”

“What we know changes all the time,” I said.

“Yes. And it can be hard to let go of long-held beliefs.” Joe held out the rod. “Your turn.”

“I can’t. I’ll snare it in the trees.”

“I’ll stand behind you and guide you.”

I hesitated.

“C’mon. It will be fun. I promise.”

I moved in front of him, and he placed his hand on mine, subtly guiding me to cast back and then forward, landing it in the exact spot he’d indicated.

“Perfect!” he said, going to give me a high five.

I turned slightly to match his hand. My foot slipped into a depression, throwing me off balance. One arm cartwheeled while I kept a death grip on the rod with my other hand. Nonetheless, down I went, Joe helping to break my fall, but losing his own balance in the process.

---