Chapter 26
Betty
We were officially at a stalemate.
Neither of us seemed to know how or when to make the next move.
The attraction felt strange and obvious, but we skirted the fact like the plague.
I could tell he saw it, too. We had this way of communicating that didn’t require words, but we just couldn’t seem to act.
Normally, I’m decisive, often moving on impulse.
But now, I was overthinking everything, wanting this to be the one time I acted accordingly.
I quit ruminating and focused on the task at hand, looking down the barrel of Gray’s rifle.
“Good,” he said, kicking my ankle and widening my stance. “The gun kicks back a decent amount, so you’ll need a wider footing.”
If I had to keep leveling my gaze on the damn beer bottle perched on a log in the distance, my eyeballs were going to pop out. Every time he adjusted my stance, I had to find it again, and my focus felt strained. My arms ached from holding the gun, and I hadn’t even taken my first shot.
He hovered a palm under my elbow, glancing where I was looking. “Good. You ready?”
I nodded, my finger on the trigger, poised to pull it.
“Okay, breathe in, then out, hold for a second, then shoot.”
I followed his instructions.
With a loud crack and a whiz, the ignition triggered and fired. The rifle’s butt jutted back into the nook of my shoulder, and I grimaced. The bullet grazed the bottle, making a loud clank. Despite the bottle’s spin off the log, the glass remained intact.
I slumped, dropping the barrel of the gun to the dirt. “Damn it!” I really wanted to see it shatter.
“That was great!” he assured me.
I pouted, unleashing my full puppy-dog gaze on him.
He stepped closer and cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. “Most people don’t get that close on their first try. That was really good,” he reiterated, his blue eyes fixed on mine.
The warm weather had returned, and the rapid shifts were giving me whiplash.
Each day felt different from the next, making it hard to keep up.
It seemed the snow was finally surrendering to the sun, with sprouts beginning to emerge from the ground.
Spring seemed to win at last; I was 75% sure this time.
Gray walked over to the log and set the bottle back up. I admired his arms as he carefully controlled his movements to balance the bottle. It was like watching a bull balance a teacup.
“Try again,” he urged.
I sighed and lifted the gun, aiming it at the bottle after Gray was safely out of the way.
His voice was low and steady. “Do what you did before, but this time, aim to compensate for the last time.”
I nodded, took a deep breath, let it out, and pulled the trigger.
The sound of glass shattering rang through the trees, and a wide grin spread across my face as I turned back to Gray, eager to seek his approval.
“There you go!” he shouted, taking two long strides toward me and gently taking the gun from my hands. He placed it on the ground, then pulled me into a hug, lifting my feet off the dirt.
“That felt amazing!” I shrieked. “Guns are so much cooler than a taser.”
He chuckled. “The taser is pretty cool, though.”
“Nash is going to have to let me use his guns now,” I added.
Gray shook his head as he set me down and took a step back. “I’m not sure he should trust you with a gun just yet, especially anywhere near people or civilization. Besides, guns don’t serve a purpose in the city, only here.”
I huffed and rolled my eyes. “I can be careful if I want to,” I muttered, scanning the woods. “Can we hunt for more elk now? I’ve enjoyed the elk you’ve been cooking for us.”
He beamed at my compliment and enthusiasm. “Yeah, as soon as I get a few new tags.”
“Tags?” I questioned.
“Hunting tags. Even though I live in the middle of nowhere, the law still applies. You can’t just shoot the wildlife whenever you want; you have to get approved first.”
I nodded, thinking it made sense. Still, who would even know he was out here? It’s not like anyone would check. The fact that he still cared, though, told me something about his character.
“If you’re looking to hunt something, we could go fishing. Have you ever been fishing before?”
“Never,” I blurted. “There aren’t many opportunities for fishing in the West Village,” I laughed. “Unless you count the catfishing,” I joked.
He laughed. “Perfect. That’s what we’ll do next, the real fishing I mean. Not the catfishing.” He picked up the gun and walked back towards the shed, vanishing inside.
When I organized the shed, I gathered and sorted all the fishing equipment for him, which included a variety of rods and lures.
While I’m no expert on fishing gear, I enjoyed arranging everything by size and color.
Some of the lures were gorgeous, too, like gems. That part of the cleanout was enjoyable.
Gray re-emerged with two rods, a tackle box, and a heavy wool blanket.
He approached and passed me, and I followed him as he walked toward the pool where we took our daily cold plunge.
I’d gotten used to the shock of the water, no longer needing to warm up in the tub afterward, although I had other reasons for wanting to do so—all of them involving seeing Gray half naked and getting the chance to lay all over him.
This was the stalemate I’d mentioned, the strange limbo we were caught in.
We’d tentatively explored intimacy, but neither of us was ready to commit. I think we were scared, but boy-howdy, the attraction was there, full force.
If we gave in? There would be no turning back.
It had been a week since he’d saved me from that bear-infested sleepover, and while I appreciated being saved, yet again, it made my affection for him harder to ignore.
The growing admiration felt like a constant pull in my gut, drawing us closer with every passing minute.
Each event was a catalyst, breaking down my stubborn walls.
He set the tackle box down, leaned the poles against a rock, and began unfolding the blanket. There was a dry, sandy beach near the bank of the river, smooth now that the waters had receded, no longer swirling and angry with excessive melt-off.
Gray sat and patted the spot beside him.
I joined him, watching as he grabbed a pole and unwound some of the clear thread, or line, I suppose it was called. Whatever it was, it already had a hook on the end, something I learned the hard way when I organized them; I’d gotten one lodged in my thumb.
He opened the tackle box and took out a small jar with something bright pink inside. I squinted, wondering if I was seeing what I thought I was.
“Are those… neon-pink marshmallows?”
Gray chuckled, his rough fingers pinching out a pink puff and holding it up. “I guess they could be misconstrued as such, but they don’t smell like marshmallows, that’s for sure. Not for s’mores.” He held it out for me to smell.
I leaned in, initially eager, but a strong fishy odor assaulted my nostrils, causing me to recoil. “Ugh, gross,” I exclaimed, pinching my nose and grimacing. “That’s just terrible, what a disappointment—talk about getting catfished.”
He laughed and threaded the marshmallow onto the hook, then reached into the box for something else. The next item resembled a small metallic ball or bead. I watched, fascinated, as he pinched it onto the line about a foot above the hook.
“This way, the line will sink into the pool,” he explained.
“And the marshmallow will float. Trout absolutely love these fish marshmallows, trust me. They’re like crack for trout.
It almost feels like cheating, but my priority is survival, not the sport.
I don’t overcomplicate things. Whatever gets the job done, gets the job done. ”
I nodded, and he handed me the pole, then picked up the second one. I sat there awkwardly, swinging mine back and forth while he got his ready.
Once his line was baited, he explained how the reel worked and how to set it for casting and reeling in.
We stood up, and he demonstrated a few casts before letting me try.
After several attempts, including one where a wet marshmallow ended up stuck in my hair, I finally managed to cast the hook into the pool.
We sat down again, and Gray showed me how to dig a hole and bury the reel’s handle so we wouldn’t have to hold them while we waited for a bite. After I secured my pole, I lay back and felt the sun warm my face. It wasn’t the beaches of New Jersey, but it was still pleasant.
When I opened my eyes, I saw Gray sitting cross-legged facing me, a piece of leather string between his fingers. His gaze fixed on me from beneath half-hooded eyelids, his look contemplative. We watched each other for a long time, another silent conversation passing between us.
After a few minutes like this, I finally asked, “What are you thinking about?”
He gave a slight smile and a shrug.
Just then, the little mound of sand around his pole cracked and wiggled, the reel clicking once every few seconds.
I gasped and sat up. “Is that a fish?” The surprise in my voice caught even me off guard.
He dropped the piece of leather and reached for the pole, handing it to me. “I think so. Here, take it.”
“What do I do with it?” I protested, but in no way refused to take the pole. I eagerly grabbed it, fiddling with the reel.
“Wait for a tug and then pull back hard and sharp,” he explained. “That’ll set the hook in the fish’s mouth.”
I nodded, my hands tingling with anticipation as I felt a tug on the line. I instinctively yanked back, and the pole came alive with a thrashing and pulling sensation. The line connected to the water was suddenly vibrant, dancing in erratic figure eights.
“You got a bite!” he exclaimed, standing up.
I stood up too, Gray helping me to my own feet while I managed the pole.
“Alright. Now, reel it in just like I showed you,” he said.