My stomach churns at the thought. I’m not a seafood person, especially not if it’s a fish we’re going to have to handle. I shudder. “That spa better have a salon attached.”
He ignores me and hands me the rod. “The line is ready, bait the hook.”
I have no idea what the hell he said. “Can you talk city to me?”
“You gotta put the food on the hook.” He hands me the tub full of worms.
I shake my head. “No, no, no. Not happening.”
“It’s a worm. It doesn’t bite.”
He opens the top, and I start to gag. Oh, I can’t. I put my head over the side of the boat in case this baby helps me a little.
“Hey.” He touches my back. “I’ll do it, baby. Don’t get sick.” Wyatt runs his hand up and down as I try to focus on anything but hurling. Because that won’t be embarrassing at all.
I take a deep breath through my nose and push it out of my mouth.
“Better?” he asks as I sit up.
“I’m okay.”
The nausea fades, but I know better then to watch what Wyatt is doing. So. Gross.
Wyatt tosses the line over the edge of the boat and then hands me the rod. “Just hold it out there, and if it gets a tug, start reeling it in.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
No one tells you that fishing is literally the most boring thing. We sit like this for five minutes, and I’m ready to row my butt to shore. After another ten minutes pass with Wyatt sitting there not doing anything and not talking, I can’t stop myself. “So?” I ask, looking at nothing. “What do we do now?”
“We wait.”
“For the fish?”
“That’s the goal.”
Wyatt looks content. I try to follow his lead, but I’m no longer tired thanks to our nap, and I’m going out of my skull. There’s nothing to watch. No people doing weird things that I can observe. The trees move. That’s about it.
“Wyatt, what happens if no fish . . . get snagged?”
“You mean, bite?”
“Sure.” I huff. “Bite. Eat. Hook. Whatever the right word is. What happens then?”
He lies back on the blanket and covers his face with his hat. “Then we wait until one does.”
“All day?”
“All day, Big City.”
I can do this. This is country life according to him. People, who I don’t know or understand, enjoy this. I guess it would be relaxing if I could actually relax, so I try. I have to remind myself that he made an effort to bake with me, so I can do the same with fishing.
My leg starts to bounce as I wait for a fish to . . . bite. They should be hungry, right? I don’t know what stocking a lake entails, but I’d assume that only the Hennington’s come here. I’m also safe to assume that they don’t come every day because they work. If that’s the case, they should want to eat.
“Here fishy, fishy, fishy,” I call quietly.
“Angie?” Wyatt’s smirk is visible from under his hat. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m calling the fish! Maybe they come like a cat?”
Wyatt bursts out laughing.
I remember the old Sesame Street episode that my brother loved. It was Bert and Ernie in the boat. Ernie, of course being the sensible one (that’s me in this situation), knew he could get the fish to come into the boat. But Bert (Wyatt) thought he was nuts. But the fish jumped up. It was brilliant.
“Laugh away, babe. I’m telling you . . . it’ll work.”
He sits up, unable to even attempt to control his hyena-style laughter. “I’ve been fishin’ since I was little, and I have never seen anyone call for a fish.”
“It worked for Ernie!” I defend.
“Ernie?”
“Yeah!” I say as if it should be obvious. “From Sesame Street. He was always the smarter of the two.”
Wyatt’s jaw drops as his shoulders bounce. “I’ve gotta see this.” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Fine.” I perk up and lean over the side of the boat again. “Here fishy, fishy, fishy,” I say it again, reenacting the scene as I remember it. He sits there, trying to hold it in. I slap his leg. “Stop! Don’t laugh at me,” I complain playfully. I look at the line that still doesn’t move. “The fish are sleeping. That’s all. You came out here too early. They’re late risers.”
His warm, rich laughter filters the air. “You’re probably right.”
“I know I am. Fish would love me if they knew me.”
Wyatt shifts forward on his knees. His hands cage me in. Slowly he leans forward, careful not to jostle the boat. “You,” he says, his eyes melting into a hooded softness, “are the single most beautiful thing in this world. The fish would be lucky to get hooked on your line.”