Page 1

JACK

I hate Sundays.

For me, they aren’t for lazy mornings in bed, the smell of coffee ruminating throughout the house, the sunlight peeking in through the shades, the feeling of someone curled up against me.

They’re not for rest and recovery, or spending the day doing things that rejuvenate the soul—or whatever the fuck people say.

Sundays are for making the 30-minute trek from my cabin to town to see an old man who gives me a hard time over my choice in nightcrawlers over leeches.

Sundays are for avoiding small-talk with the locals and pretending that being around another human doesn’t make me want to peel my skin off.

It’s the only day the bait shop is open—it’s closed every other day of the week so Banjo, as he calls himself, an old fisherman with an eye patch and a stringy white ponytail, can be out on the lake.

You could use one leech for every dozen of those lousy worms. Be a real fisherman and get the damn leeches .

Without fail, he urges every Sunday, but I don’t care enough to argue.

There isn’t much I care about these days.

Instead, I just nod and tell him, “Maybe next time”, even though we both know I’ll be getting two more containers of nightcrawlers when I come back next week.

It’s the same routine Banjo and I have followed since my first Sunday walking into his shop five months ago.

My cabin in the Northwoods of Wisconsin belonged to my grandpa, with wallpaper from the ’70s and furniture he built in the ‘80s, not to mention no cell phone service or neighbors within a 25-mile radius.

It’s just the way I like it.

No other cabins surrounding the small lake, no other boats out on the water, just me and my thoughts.

Just solitude .

When I decided to come up here, the seclusion sounded like a good idea. Too much of home—both the people and the place—reminded me of who wasn’t there anymore and how different it was going to be now that he was gone.

“When are you gonna be a real fisherman and get the damn leeches, boy?” the old man rasps around the toothpick hanging from his lip. I set two cartons of nightcrawlers on the glass counter of Banjo’s Bait Shop, my hand going to my pocket to pull out a couple bills.

“Maybe next time,” I reply as I set the bills on the counter.

“You even catch anythin’ with ‘em things?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, his black and red flannel buttoned up to his neck and tucked into dark blue jeans, his white beard almost as long as his ponytail. “There’s no way ‘em silly worms get you nothin’ more than a few bluegill.”

“I do okay,” I answer, grabbing the containers and turning toward the door before he can say anything else about my bait of choice. I wave a hand behind me as a goodbye before pushing the door to the shop open, the little bell chiming as I walk into the crisp spring air.

May has been uncharacteristically cool this year, but the cooler weather has pushed off the summer crowd that comes into town for their “upnorth” summer vacation, prolonging the solitude and isolation I’ve been hiding in.

It’s also nice sitting out on the lake with a cool breeze or the light sprinkle rather than sweating my balls off in the sun.

A gust of wind greets me, accompanied by the smell of rain from the night before and the fresh pine from the trees. One deep breath of the clear air, and I immediately feel some of the tension in my shoulders release.

While it’s possible to fish year-round in Wisconsin, this month marks the beginning of the season for most lakes, and I have been itching for a catch that isn’t just the pesky sunfish that eat my worm before I even realize I have a bite.

The bass, walleye, along with the loons who keep my company out on the lake, are calling my name.

“Jack!” My name rings out from behind me.

Damn it.

I run a hand through my hair and resist the urge to look at the cloudy sky and let out a groan.

When I’m not overly stealthy with getting my bait and getting out of town, Banjo’s wife, Caroline, or her sister, Beatrice, find me—and then ultimately corner me and drag me into their diner for breakfast.

I got out of it the first few weeks I was here, but I got tired of coming up with excuses by the second month.

When I finally agreed back in February, I regretted sitting down at the counter within three seconds.

Not only did I have to deal with the two of them pestering me with questions, but I had to suffer through the rest of the locals at the diner tuning in to get the 411 on what James Hasting’s grandson was doing up here after twenty years.

Since then, I have only had a 30% success rate of getting in and out of town without running into someone other than Banjo and getting trapped into breakfast, running an errand, fixing a sink, or getting a cat out of the tree.

Actually getting a cat out of a fucking tree.

The first time it happened, I honestly thought it was a prank or some kind of asinine joke because the town knows I am— was —a firefighter back home, and the stupid motif—or expression, or whatever the hell it is—didn’t escape me.

Then, it happened again, and I decided it was because the universe likes to laugh at me—along with Beatrice’s cat.

I almost don’t turn around, but then I hear the voice call my name again—I know it’s Caroline. Lake Tomahawk is small enough to drive through and not even see the odometer go up, and her diner is right next door to her husband’s bait shop.

“I know you hear me, Jacky Boy.” The stupid, childhood nickname makes my fingers clench around the plastic containers of worms at the same time it makes a hairline crack in my annoyance.

Technically, I already knew all the locals before coming up here, especially Caroline, but I haven’t spent any time here since the summer I turned 16.

My grandparents were a staple here in Lake Tomahawk, but their cabin has been empty since my grandpa died.

Even so, their legacy lines every inch of this town—memories of spending summers here with them, my younger sister, Emerson, and all the town locals are etched into my brain—and Caroline isn’t afraid of my grumpy exterior, not when she met me as a skinny, sunburnt, braces-wearing kid, only a few years before my grandfather passed away.

I turn to face her, futilely accepting that my chances of getting to my boat within the next 35 minutes are gone.

Caroline’s white hair is pulled back in a tight bun with a pencil stuck right through it; her pink, grease-stained apron wrapped tightly around her round waist. She places her hands on her hips and looks at me as if she caught me stealing cookies out of the jar she keeps by the register.

“You snuck out with your bait the last two weeks without saying hello to me,” she reprimands, and I almost hang my head in shame like the time she caught me and my sister loosening the caps on the salt shakers in the diner.

“Sorry,” I mumble, but it comes out more like a growl.

“ Sorry doesn’t cut it.” She deepens her voice to mock my half-assed apology, crossing her arms and taking a step toward me. “You can’t be spending all your time holed up in that cabin like your granddaddy did after you kids stopped coming up here.”

My annoyance is immediately replaced with a flood of guilt, along with frustration at what she’s implying.

“We didn’t have a choice,” I reply through gritted teeth, not wanting to disrespect the woman who has always been nothing but nice to me, but not liking where this conversation is headed.

“You know he wasn’t the same after Grandma Laurie died.

” I watch the furrow in her brow turn from one of anger to one of sadness, and it melts some of my anger too.

I don’t miss the similarity between my grandpa and me—both of us using this cabin to isolate ourselves after a loss—but I don’t let myself sit with the thought for long. I know Caroline made the connection within my first week here.

“Jacky Boy,” she starts, her arms uncrossing and reaching out to grab the arm hung at my side, “I’m just worried about you.

” I feel the warmth of her touch through the sleeve of my jacket, the touch further settling the tension that seems to never fully release from my body these days. “Ever since Ben?—”

I stiffen at the first syllable of his name. “Don’t,” I interrupt before she can say what I know she wants to, and this time it is a growl. “I’m fine.”

And alive, which is more than I can say about my best friend.

“You’ve said the word ‘fine’ so many times, it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore.”

I shake my head, her words ringing too true and close for comfort. Saying “I’m fine” has become a natural response, and I don’t even know what the fuck it means now that I’m living a life without the person who mattered most to me.

But I’m not up here to sit and dissect my feelings.

I’m here to fish and get some fucking peace and quiet.

Before I can say any of this to her, my phone rings. I almost don’t register the sound, the noise so foreign after a week of it sitting silently on my kitchen table from the lack of service in the woods.

Caroline lets go of my arm, her eyes misty as she reminds me, “As happy as I am to have you back here, you can’t hide up here forever.”

I try not to show how deeply her words cut into me, or how jarring it is to no longer feel the tender touch of another human being after so many months alone. I don’t need her reminding me of a fact I try to keep as far back in my brain as possible.

Grabbing my phone from my back pocket, I give her a curt nod as I jog across the street to my truck, with every intent of leaving this conversation behind me as I go.

I open the driver's side door, set the containers of worms on the center console, and turn to see Caroline walking back into the diner, her head shaking slightly.

Ignoring the pang in my chest and the overwhelming feeling of grief beginning its slow yet familiar descent into me, I turn my phone over in my hand to see who’s calling.