20. Fallon
Chapter twenty
Fallon
Excitement courses through my veins as I organize paint tubes by color. I’ve had the paint for a while even though some of the containers are still sealed. I line my supplies the way I always do: a cup of water, a couple of paper towels, and a container of various-sized paintbrushes by my feet.
Look, I’m not a professional, okay?
Once I start painting, all hell breaks loose, and the colors mix, and whatever happens after that is artistic innovation.
Painting is all about the vibe, anyway. I squeeze the clay-colored paint directly onto the canvas, swiping it everywhere. That’ll be my base. I started using an orange-colored base when I was in high school and haven’t ventured to change, especially for a landscape.
I sit on my wooden kitchen chair under the large oak tree in the backyard, watching the birds in the sky while I wait for the first coat of paint to dry. I angle myself toward the pier, ready to capture the pristine views of the opposite shoreline.
I carried a bright-yellow Adirondack to the dock for Jeb, although it’s probably too low to the ground and too reclined to do any fishing. Sleeping, sure. Fishing, questionable.
I hear a car door slam in the direction of the driveway and hop up to head that way.
“Hey,” I call, letting him know I’m out back.
“Hey, think you could give me a hand?” he yells back, and when I round the corner the first thing I see is his ass. His body is bent over the bed of his truck, leaning in to grab something. Guess he got his tailgate fixed.
“Sure.” I try hard not to stare as he grabs a couple of rods and slides them toward the tailgate.
“There are bags on the front seat. Could you take them inside for me? I’ll get the rods and the tackle box.”
“Yep,” I exhale, thankful for a task that doesn’t involve gawking. I open the passenger-side door and find a seat full of grocery bags. “The groceries?”
“Yeah,” he says, and I grab the bags and head inside.
I plop them on the counter and watch Jeb through the kitchen window, walking toward the water with his rods in one hand and tackle box in the other. I grab my phone to take a picture.
Creepy? Yes. Am I sorry? No.
His tee, teal with an intricate fish design on the back, looks like something a tourist would purchase in Florida. Maybe it’s a Marlin or a Sturgeon—something large and colorful. He’s wearing a black hat and a pair of short khakis that show half of his thighs.
It looks like he was plucked off a fishing boat in the Keys and deposited in my backyard. His sun-kissed skin and polarized sunglasses give me the impression that tides and sand dollars raised him.
I stop staring once he leans his rods down near the pier and heads back to the house. One by one, I empty the bags and put the contents on the counter. Sour-cream-and-onion chips, chocolate-covered caramel bites, a twelve pack of Yuengling, a twelve pack of High Noons, a frozen pizza, grapes, a pack of pepperonis, a container of worms, other non-live bait, jelly beans, and sunscreen.
Okayyyyyyy?
Jeb walks into the house like he lives here, too. “Jeb, I said I was making lunch for us.”
“Oh, no, this isn’t… I still want the egg salad. I just picked up a few extra things in case we needed them.”
“A frozen pizza?”
“Yeah, for an afternoon snack or an early dinner. We can add the pepperonis, or we can eat them separately.”
Usually, when I’m included in a “we” or an “us” situation, it’s Rhett and me, not Jeb and me. I wait for the grief about the realization to hit, but it doesn’t.
“I got High Noons for you. The girl at the liquor store suggested it when I asked her what the girls are drinking nowadays. If you don’t like them, you can have the Yuenglings, or I can run out and grab something else. I should’ve asked, but I wanted to surprise you.”
“I love High Noons. The OGs call them Nooners.”
“What flavor Nooner do you want?” He opens the box, grinning.
“Watermelon,” I respond before even hearing the options.
I make room for the frozen pizza in the freezer and the rest of the cold things in the refrigerator.
Jeb cracks open the watermelon High Noon and sits it on the counter for me. I take a sip and watch as he rifles through the container of worms, checking them all out, I guess.
“You want to eat now or later?” I ask him.
“Now sounds good.” He puts the container of worms on the counter and washes his hands before popping a chocolate-covered caramel in his mouth. He lifts his foot to his knee, popping the top of his Yuengling with the bottle opener on the bottom of his sandal.
Probably not very sanitary, but… it gets the job done.
“We can eat on the porch,” I tell him.
“Great idea. I’ll get the drinks.”
Across from each other at the picnic table, we eat the egg salad sandwiches I made, with the chips and grapes he brought. The breeze flows through the screened sides of the deck.
The conversation flows like two old friends who haven’t spoken in a while. Never a lull in conversation, Jeb mentions that he brought a rod for me to fish with him if I want to take a break from painting. He asks me why my canvas is orange. I answer, then ask him what kind of fish he thinks he’s trying to catch, and he briefs me on the seasons of fishing on the Chetta.
When he comes back from using the bathroom, he mentions how nice the house looks and how I did a great job decorating. Jeb brings the chocolates with him, grabbing one for himself and handing one to me. One for him, one for me. I laugh when I tell him he looks like he was plucked off a fishing rig. He examines his outfit and then agrees. I grab another round of drinks for each of us, and Jeb uses the bottom of his shoe to open his beer again.
“Can I have a sip of your Yuengling? I can’t remember the taste,” I ask him.
“Sure,” he takes the bottle directly from his lips and holds it out to me. I briefly think about trying to tip the bottle to let it flow into my mouth like middle school sports days, but I don’t trust myself not to spill the cool liquid down the front of my shirt. Instead, I put the bottle directly on my lips. Jeb’s Adam’s apple rises and falls when I pull the bottle from my mouth.
When I hand the bottle back, our fingers touch, sending shivers up my arm. He tips the bottle back to his lips to take another swig, and when he does, his eyes shut. For a split second, I think I hear him moan.
Honestly, my brain could have made it up, but either way, my core is on fire as Jeb puts his lips where mine just were.
“What did you think?” he asks.
“About what?” I search his eyes.
“The Yuengling. Did you like the taste?”
“Oh.” I push my hair behind my ears. “Yeah. It reminds me of a friend I had in college. She always drank it.” Although, from this point on it will remind me of Jeb.
Jeb takes a deep breath, peeling at the label on his beer bottle.
“I guess we should clean this up and get to it.” He stands, gathering my plate and his. I stay seated for a minute while he puts them in the sink, and then we walk side by side in the yard until I veer off toward the old oak, and he heads for the dock.
I stare at Jeb again, watching as he works the rod, gingerly adding bait to the hook. I take a few more pictures without him noticing as he sits on the edge of the dock, swinging his legs back and forth with his rod in his hand. Maybe I’ll paint that.
I sit to paint with my second High Noon in hand. The breeze today is perfect, especially in the shade under the tree. It’s a gorgeous afternoon.
Jeb sits in the sun and finishes his beer, then pops another one with his shoe. I know it’s coming, so I take a picture of that, too. The bottom-of-the-shoe bottle opener is so funny to me.
Overtop the orange paint, I swish a thick brush across the canvas. Light green for the trees in the background and sides and grass along the bottom, dark blue for the river, and beige for the dock. I tilt my head sideways, happy with the results, and then grab my drink and amble over to Jeb. Even though I don’t need to wait much longer than a few minutes for the paint to dry, I’ll use that as an excuse.
I sit on the Adirondack behind him, and his rod jolts slightly, the line pulling taut.
“You kidding me?” He tenses, turning to look at me before reeling.
“What?” I ask.
“As soon as you sat down, I hooked a fish.”
“I guess I’m your good luck charm then. Oh! Speaking of… how’s Lucky?”
“She’s doing good. My mom had my dad cut a little cat flap in the basement door so Lucky can go up and down as she pleases. My mom’s a cat lady. I knew she’d try to kidnap Lucky.”
Silently, he reels until he brings his catch all the way in and unhooks it from the line, turning to show me.
“Probably four pounds or so. Not bad.”
“What kind of fish is it?”
“A bass. Now that you live on the river, you’re going to be a pro.” He walks the fish toward me.
“Wait, let me get a picture.” He stops to smile for the camera while he holds the mouth of the fish with his thumb.
“Do you want a picture?” he asks.
“No, but I do want a rod. I’ll get a picture when I catch my own, and we’ll see whose is bigger.”
“Doesn’t know the fish breed, but challenges me to a contest. I like it.” He kisses the side of the fish, and I raise my eyebrow at him. “What? It’s good luck.” He giggles, and I don’t know whether he’s trying to pull one over on me.
“Here, kiss it.” He holds the wriggly fish my way, and I lean forward in my chair, giving it a little peck on the side—barely touching it with my lips.
Jeb leans over the dock, gently placing the fish in the water and watching it swim upstream.
I can’t help but laugh. I kissed a fish! A real fish! “I’m going to google if that’s real or not, you know. And if I kissed a fish for no reason, I’ll be getting back at you!”
“It’s real. Now, do you want me to get a rod ready for you? You can test the luck theory out?”
“Yes!” I stand up, walking toward the edge of the dock.
“Do you know how to cast?”
“I probably used to, but no.”
“Right, hold the rod like this.” My mind goes blank. I can’t hear a word he says because he’s standing behind me with his arms wrapped around mine.
He holds the rod with one hand and grabs my other hand to hold the reel.
“You’re going to press this button, swing, and release.” He says the words and does the motions simultaneously, throwing my line in the water, the bobber bobbing like my heart is right now.
He removes his arms and picks up his rod, casting in the opposite direction.
“The first person to catch a fish wins,” he says, sitting on the worn wood. He turns his head upward to smile at me, and I sit on the other side of the dock so we both have enough space between us.
“Wins what?”
He taps his finger on his chin, contemplating as his eyes dart around. They land on my half-full can, and he flashes me a devilish grin. “The loser has to walk up to the house to get our next round of drinks.”
“Deal. And they have to bring the jelly beans, too,” I add.
“See, I knew there was a reason I was drawn to the bag of them.”