She darts around the dock, plucking up the rods and digging into the other ice chest for a plastic container. Then she returns to the blanket and pats the spot next to her.
“Here. Come sit by me.” Her feet are back in the water, and I want that. I want to sit next to her with my naked feet next to hers. I swallow hard and toe off my shoes and socks. Meanwhile, she opens the container, revealing little discs of what looks like dime-sized pepperoni.
I sink beside her. “What is that?”
She grins at me, picking up one of the little bits of meat. “Hot dog. I don’t like using live bait, and this was the best I could find.”
Of course she doesn’t like using live bait. But— “That doesn’t look like hotdog.”
She giggles. “I dried it out in the air fryer. Hopefully, it’ll stay on the hook.” She feeds one piece over one of the fishing hooks and then hands the rod to me.
“Brilliant.”
A moment later, she has baited her own hook, and I wait for her to cast first. When she does, it’s with a skillful, supple wrist, her hook and sinker sailing beautifully and landing just beside a crop of cattails that are surely a favored spot of hungry fish. I pick a spot just past the tall grass to our right, away from her line and let my hook fly. It lands with aplopand I reel in the excess line.
And for a timeless, peaceful moment, we sit just like that. Close, but not touching. Quiet, but not needing to speak.
“I think my bait’s on the bottom,” she mutters, and then reels in her line to cast it gracefully a second time.
Maybe three seconds pass before her cork plunges underwater, and her line whizzes with friction.
“Holy shit!” Greta yelps, leaning back and beginning to reel. “Woohoo!”
Then a stout, angry fish breaks the water’s surface. Greta hollers with triumph the entire time she’s reeling him in, and by the time he’s flapping in front of her face, I’m laughing like a fool.
Greta grasps the line just above him. “Ooh,” she groans with a grimace, the celebration leaving her in a flash. “This is the part I hate.”
“Here, I’ll do it.” I reach for the line, but I don’t take it before she gives me permission.
“I can do it,” she mutters, but her lip curls with distaste.
“Of course you can. You can do anything.” I step closer, my hand hovering just above hers. “I’m just offering to do it for you.”
Her lips disappear between her teeth, like she’s debating with herself. Then she nods rapidly, stepping back to give me more room. I grab the fish without hesitation. As I work the hook out of the bream’s mouth, Greta hisses and paces beside me like she’s the one who’s been caught and now faces the frying pan.
“Sorry little guy,” she grovels to the fish, her fists balled under her chin, guilt crimping her brow.
Letheroff the hook. Make it better somehow.
Once the hook is out, I hold the bream up to my ear. “What’s that?” I pretend to ask the fish.
Greta blinks in surprise.
I nod sagely, giving her as deadpan an expression as I can manage. “He says the hotdog was worth it. He can swim over the Great Waterfall into Bream Heaven with no regrets.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. She doesn’t so much as giggle, but that guilty look is gone. I make quick work of stashing the catch in the cooler of ice water. The little guy thrashes twice before the cold does its work.
When I shut the cooler’s lid and turn back to Greta, the look in her eyes stuns me still.
If I had to name it, I don’t know if I could, but it’s something akin to gratitude. A blood-relative of appreciation? A cousin of regard?
Maybe with an heir of wonder?
Whatever its family tree, it’s a look I want to cultivate. Harvest more of it.
And then mischief overtakes it. She nods toward my line. “You better get back to that. Whoever catches more doesn’t have to clean.”
She ends up catching three to my two, But despite my protests, she helps me clean. She batters. I fry.