“Now you know,” I say. “Extreme trauma relating to having to snake and pump out the head.”

She laughs and takes another—not very successful—shot at casting.

But before too long, she gets the hang of it, and we stand side by side—as close as we can without risking tangling—and cast into the lazy Mionet.

She’s quiet for a long time, and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Standing with her, enjoying the rush of the river, the calls of crows and eagles. The songs of smaller birds.

The sight of her, standing quietly, patiently, waiting with me.

I had no idea how much I wanted this. None.

Later in the morning, as the cooler gets heavier with trout and the birds quiet down for midday, we both get chattier. I explain to her a bunch about the different kinds of lures.

“What’s the one you keep in your pocket?” she asks.

I hadn’t known she’d noticed.

“My dad and I made it when I was little. I loved it and wanted to keep it with me instead of putting it in the tackle box. So he cut the hook off, and I’ve had it ever since. It’s kind of a good-luck charm. Or worry stone. Both.”

She smiles at that. “Your dad was always so nice to me. I miss him.”

“Me too.”

She nods.

“Are you going to teach Justin? To fish?”

I feel myself freeze, and I see the moment where she picks up on it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, quickly. “That was—the wrong question.” Then she takes a deep breath. “It’s just—it’s so clear how much you love him. Maybe you should try to spend more time with him. If his parents are okay with that.”

The suggestion doesn’t hurt as much as I would have expected it to. It feels…okay. “Zoë asked me to. To spend more time with him. She needs more childcare now that Len went back to his wife.”

She winces.

“Yeah.”

“Once a dick, always a dick.” She sighs. “I wish I could warn Werner’s next girlfriend.”

“Did you just curse?”

She smiles. “I think I did. I mean, call a dick a dick, right?”

I grin.

“Maybe Justin would like going out on the boat. He’s old enough now to get the wind and the sky and the water, right?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Pretty sure he knows a lot more about what’s going on than we think. We should take him out.”

We.

I try not to love the sound of that, and fail.

“When I was his dad—”

I choke on the words.

“Brody.”