Epilogue
Jinx
The rumble of my bike is as simple as an add-on to my already perfect world.
With Raven’s arms locked around my waist, her cheek a warm pressure between my shoulder blades.
We’ve left Willowbrook Ridge and the noise behind, trading it for winding asphalt and the green, growing scent of the woods that swallow the road leading to Meadow Falls.
It’s a stupid idea. Probably. Taking the woman who is, for all intents and purposes, my entire universe, to a piss-ant town’s muddy dock to sit in the sun and do nothing all day. Today, I need some peace and quiet. Some solitude with the love of my life.
We pull up to the rickety public docks. The lake is a sheet of hammered bronze under the late afternoon sun.
Raven climbs off, pulling her helmet free.
Her hair is a wild, dark mess, and her eyes are squinted against the light.
She takes in the faded sign, the lone, grumpy-looking flock of geese waddling by.
Turning, she watches as I fumble with my saddlebag, pulling out a pair of collapsed fishing poles.
“Fishing,” she says, the word flat.
“Fishing,” I confirm, fetching the tackle box from the saddlebag next before leading her away from the bike.
She doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t complain. Just nods, a little smile playing on her lips.
That’s it. That’s why I love this woman so fucking much. She’ll follow me into a brawl without blinking, and she’ll follow me into utter boredom with the same steady trust. It shakes me up every time.
We find a spot at the end of the dock, our legs dangling over the water. I show her how to thread the worm—she makes a face but does it—and casts the line. It’s clumsy. Her bobber lands too close to the shore. She doesn’t care. She settles in, leaning back on her hands, and just… relaxes.
The silence isn’t empty. It’s filled with the lap of water, the distant cry of a bird, the soft creak of old wood. Casting my line, I show her how a pro does it. All without tangling my line with a submerged branch.
An hour passes by, and the only thing we’ve caught is the sun.
Raven digs into her jacket pocket and pulls out a neatly rolled blunt.
She lights it, takes a deep pull, and holds the smoke in before exhaling a slow, fragrant cloud that mixes with the smell of lake water and pine. She offers it to me. I shake my head.
The weed works its magic on her slowly. The serious set of her mouth softens.
She starts noticing things—the way the light dapples through the leaves, the absurdly diligent path of a water bug skating across the surface.
A giggle escapes her, then another, muffled against her knuckles. It’s a sound I’d trade my bike for.
This is Raven unguarded. Raven at peace.
I’m content just to watch her, to feel the sun on my neck and her shoulder brushing mine. This is the space I wanted. This right here.
“This is actually kinda nice,” she muses, her words slightly syrupy. “But these fish really suck. We’ve been here forever.”
“Patience, woman,” I say, bumping her shoulder with mine. She doesn’t scowl at me, simply leaning in with me so we remain connected. I have to try not to grin, or she’ll get flustered and pull away.
“I have no patience,” she declares, taking another hit. “Maybe it’s the worms. I wouldn’t want to snack on those either.”
Rambling, she kicks her legs. Her feet don’t touch the water, but I can’t blame any fish for being scared by her giant boots.
She’s holding the blunt between two fingers of her right hand, her fishing pole loosely in her left. We lapse back into the quiet, the giggles subsiding into a contented hum from her direction.
Then it finally happens. Our patience has been rewarded.
Her bobber—that stupid, bright red thing—vanishes with a violent plunk.
Raven jerks upright, eyes wide. “The fuck?”
“You got a bite,” I say, but I’m already grinning.
To her surprise, her fingers spasm. The blunt, now a tiny roach, flicks from her grip and arcs into the water with a pathetic hiss. “Shit.”
She’s so focused on the tragic loss of her high that she nearly lets the rod follow it. It slips, and she fumbles, catching it awkwardly against her chest. The line is zipping out, the rod tip bending hard.
“Reel it in!” I laugh, not moving to help. I can’t lie, I enjoy finding little things she’s not good at. This is most definitely one of them.
Her anger melts, replaced by pure concentration. She gets a proper grip and starts reeling. It’s not graceful. There’s a lot of grunting coming from under her breath, and I’m fighting a war not to make fun of her.
If I start teasing, she’ll shove me into the water. No doubt about it.
After a comical struggle, she manages to haul it up. Swinging from the line is a fat, ugly, whiskered catfish. It’s mud-brown and slick, flopping angrily in the air.
Raven stares at it, her chest heaving. She looks from the fish to me, her eyes shining with triumph. “Caught one before you. Look at that.”
I can’t help it. I burst out laughing, the sound feeling foreign and good in my throat. She’s beaming, her earlier giggles gone, replaced by a radiant pride. The setting sun catches the freckles of brown in her eyes, the sweat on her temple. She’s never looked more beautiful.
“You did,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “You sure did.”
We take a picture—her holding the grumpy catfish as far away as possible, her nose wrinkled and her mouth fighting back that same curve that always steals my breath.
I carefully work the hook free and lower the fish back into the water.
It gives a defiant slap of its tail and disappears into the murk.
Raven collapses back onto the dock, breathless. “I need to print out that picture and hang it up at the bar. The guys will get a kick out of it.”
Or, I could save it as my wallpaper and keep this image all to myself.
Settling back at my side, she’s a little more eager to hook another worm. What could possibly be better than catching the first fish?
Catching twice the amount I have.
There’s no question about her competitive side, and I can’t help but hope she wins. She always gets so worked up when she’s on top.
Once her bobber is back out, she laces her fingers through mine. Squinting ahead, she goes as far as leaning back toward me.
“If I catch the next fish, you’ve got to go on another date with me tomorrow.” Murmuring the words, I hear her scoff.
“I’ll go either way, obviously.” Without looking my way, I’m willing to bet she’s rolling her eyes. “But sure. Though if I catch the next one, I’m picking. I’ll choose something fun.”
With a mind like hers, leaving me feeling a little concerned, I can only hope it’ll be my bobber that sinks instead of hers.