She can’t set down the rod or approach me without tangling us, but she reaches out a hand, and I take it. Her touch calms me enough that I can get the rest of the sentence out. “That was my fantasy. That I’d teach him about the boat. Teach him to be an angler. A fly fisherman.”

“You don’t have to lose that part,” she says. “You still can.”

I let the thought sit for a moment. I let myself picture it again.

It feels good.

I squeeze her hand.

Then I say, “The wedding was supposed to be a week from Saturday.”

“How are you feeling about that?” she asks, cautiously.

I test myself out around it. Poke the date and the event, Zoë and Justin and Len, with the edges of my bruised emotions.

I squeeze her hand again.

“Surprisingly okay.”

I’m rewarded with a Rachel smile so big it hurts my chest.

28

Rachel

“Look, Justin! Elk!”

I point to the shore, and his baby gaze seems to follow mine, but it’s hard to tell. I don’t know how far a six-month-old can see, how sharp his vision is at picking out the large, brown deer-like creature from the rest of the woods, or whether he cares. He grabs my finger and babbles, so that seems like a good start.

Justin, Brody, and I are out on Brody’s small fishing boat on one of the lakes in the national forest, soaking up some mid-summer sunshine and each other’s company, and, man, this is the life. After I suggested to Brody that he try to spend more time with Justin, he told Zoë he wanted to take Justin out in the boat, and she said it was fine, as long as he wore a life jacket. So he’s twice as roly-poly in one of those little baby life vests.

I carry Justin back to where Brody is casually piloting the boat and wearing yet another form-fitting t-shirt and pair of butt-flattering ripped jeans. I let myself enjoy the ink-and-ropy-muscle forearm porn for a moment, until Justin squawks and reaches for Brody. I tip the baby into Brody’s arms.

Gah, the two of them. Squishy baby and ripped dad. I allow myself the luxury of ogling. And enjoy the melting sensation in my chest.

Brody steers us to a spot that’s shaded by the angle of sun and mountain, and we drift a bit. Brody takes advantage of the opportunity to let Justin “steer.” He plants Justin’s fat little hands on the wheel, and Justin appears delighted, slapping his palms repeatedly on the wheel and turning to give his father a gummy grin.

“You’re so good with him,” I say.

“I don’t know about that.”

Brody’s scowling, something I realize I haven’t seen him do in quite a while.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry if that was the wrong thing to say.”