Page 22

Twenty-One

We’ve been on the boat twenty minutes—our guide just finished his casting spiel—when Fran’s joker of a date has his phone out, videoing himself. He can’t cast with his phone in one hand, but he’s sure trying.

Zev gives me a knowing glance, and I give it back. Fran may be quirky—even a little wacky like Rosalie said—but she’s truly sweet. She deserves more than this clown. I’ve never seen anyone so obsessed with themselves, and I spend a good amount of time with Lucca Cruz.

Paul huffs in frustration, and the rest of us, all five, look over at him. “This isn’t working. Fran, can you video while I cast?”

She looks at her own fishing pole, line already in the water.

“Um, sure.” She passes her pole off to me a little longingly, but just when I’m about to volunteer myself up as cameraman—or make a strong suggestion that Paul put his phone away—Fran grins.

Something has occurred to her because she’s like a dark lighthouse that someone just sent a flame to.

“Actually, I’m happy to help.” She does sound happy.

But this is Fran… so the odds of her being up to something are high.

Rosalie pulls the collar of her jacket up. Her nose and cheeks are as pink as a ripe watermelon. She looks as if she’s chilled to the bone, which tracks with the cold look she sends from me to Fran. She likes Paul as much as I do. But Fran only winks back.

“You know what I heard?” Fran says, holding Paul’s phone outward, videoing his every move.

“What?” He smiles for the camera—and though Rosalie and I both have lines in the water, we can’t stop watching the scene before us.

“I heard there are fish in this lake that will eat a man’s hand if given the chance.”

I have no idea what Fran is up to. There is no such legend. She’s so theatrical, and Paul is eating it up.

“Really?” he says with a chuckle.

“Um, not true,” Janice, our fishing guide, says. She’s behind the wheel of this small aluminum fishing boat, one that’s barely big enough for the seven of us. But she’s listening to everything Fran is saying too. We all are.

Fran ignores the woman who’s been taking tourists out on this lake for thirty years. “It’s rare to see one, but they’re out there.”

“No. They aren’t,” Janice says.

Fran doesn’t even glance Janice’s way. She is in full character mode—nothing will stop her.

Zev and Mira listen too. Both have cast and peer out at the water that Fran is attempting to hype up.

“What kind of bait did you use?” Fran asks Paul .

He doesn’t stare at Fran, but right into the camera—they’re playing out this odd scene together apparently. “The fastest worm I could find.”

A fast worm? What does that even mean?

“Aren’t we all using worms?” Mira whispers to Zev.

Then, as if on cue—as if the lake is playing along with Fran—Paul’s pole jerks, and Fran jumps with the yank. His hands tighten around the handle, and his expression of shock is almost sincere.

“It’s a big one,” he tells Fran through a chuckle.

Fran peers into the water and gasps—not nearly as genuine; no, she is still in theater mode. “It is a big one.”

“The Mackinaw trout can get up to thirty-seven pounds,” Janice says. She stares at Paul’s arrhythmic pole. “He doesn’t have one.”

Fran moves the camera angle of Paul’s phone, slow and deliberate.

“What are you doing?” Paul asks. “Camera on me, Fran. Please.”

“But this fish,” Fran says, as if she’s telling us all a ghost story. “It could be big enough to swallow a man’s hand whole.”

“It’s not,” Janice says.

We’re all watching as Fran ignores Paul’s pleas and moves the angle of his phone down to the water, videoing his line, the sea, and possibly his fish.

She lowers her hand until it’s just out of sight.

“There he is!” she says just before she lets out a crying howl.

Her body jerks as she throws half of herself over the side of the boat.

“My phone!” Paul shrieks, sounding a whole lot like my fourteen-year-old sister.

“My hand!” Fran yells back. She lifts her arm into view, her fingers tucked tightly into the sleeve of her flannel shirt. She lifts her arm, showing it to us as if her hand has been taken.

“Good grief,” Janice mutters.

“No! My phone!” Paul squeals again. This time, he covers his face with both hands, letting go of his fishing pole altogether. The spinning rod bounces up to the bow of the boat, the butt smacking Fran in the head before slipping into the water.

“My Fenwick!” Janice yells, rushing to the side of the boat.

“Whoa, Fran.” I hurry over to her. “You’re bleeding.”

Her fingers, still wrapped around Paul’s phone, slip out from the sleeve of her shirt. “Am I?”

“You are.” With the tail of my cotton T-shirt, I dab at the cut Paul’s pole has caused.

“What was that?” Paul yells, snatching his phone from her hand, limp at her side.

Fran’s honey-brown eyes flick from me to Paul. “It was a joke. You know, Joe Bradley from Roman Holiday . Just a ‘my hand is gone’ gag.”

“Hey, I know that movie,” Janice says, her arms and upper body wet—but somehow, she’s saved Paul’s fishing pole.

Paul exhales dramatically. “That wasn’t funny, Fran. I thought my phone was gone.”

She clears her throat, her gaze darting from Paul to me, to the section of stomach I’m currently showing to the world.

I guess I am a little close, and my shirt is currently only covering half my body, but she’s bleeding.

Someone needed to apply pressure. Janice was worried about her fishing pole.

And Paul just kept shrieking about his phone.

“Oh, hey,” Paul says, his tone a little less horrified. “You’re still videoing. Perfect.” He scans his phone around the boat and over the water.

“That’s enough, man,” Zev tells him. “No more videos.”

People rarely argue with six-foot-five, broader-than-a-bear Zevulun Hayes.

Obediently, Paul tucks his cell into his pocket.

“Move over, hero.” Rosalie bumps her side into mine. She’s got actual gauze in one hand and the boat’s first aid kit in the other. I suppose that might work better than my shirt.

I help Fran sit on one of the few seats of this boat, then move out of the way to let Rosalie work.

My shoulder rams into Paul’s as I push past him to stand next to Zev.

“Hey, Superman,” Zev says, a grin playing at his mouth, his eyes wide and purposefully traveling down to the red-blotched stain on my shirt. “You saved the day.”

“She was bleeding,” I mutter.

“I saw that.”

“What did you say you were doing?” Mira asks. “A Joe from what?”

Rosalie stands over Fran, dabbing antibiotic ointment on Fran’s head. She moves an inch to the side, giving Fran a view of Mira. “It’s a scene from one of my favorite movies. You’ve never seen it?”

“I haven’t,” Mira says.

“There’s this scene where the main male character, Joe, tells Ann an ancient tale about a stone face at the Spanish Steps. He pretends the face bites his hand off.”

Mira’s brows cinch.

“It’s funny. And playful. And sweet.” Fran blows an exhale through her nose. “Maybe you need to watch it to understand.”

“It sounds… sweet ,” Mira says, though her sentence sounds like a question.

“It sounds childish,” Paul says. “Not sweet. Not at all.”

Rosalie carefully places two Band-Aids over the cut on Fran’s head. “She was just trying to have fun,” she says in Fran’s defense.

This is what Rosalie means when she says Fran is a little crazy but the sweetest. It’s true. She’s just trying to make things memorable. And this is a fishing trip I will never forget—I’m guessing none of us will.

“It was supposed to shock you—but in the end, make you laugh.” Fran lifts her hand and presses two fingers to the bandage Rosalie just placed on her head.

“Well, big fail.” Paul sneers.

“It wouldn’t have been a failure if you hadn’t panicked over your phone rather than Fran’s safety,” I say.

“That’s a bit immature,” Paul says.

I clench my hand into a fist. “To worry more for your phone than a person? I agree, very immature.”

Paul scoffs out a laugh. “Of the two of us, I’m the one who’s saved her life.”

“It was a silly remake. And it clearly didn’t work,” Fran says, attempting to intervene. “I just like recreating moments from romance movies. It’s kind of my thing. It’s goofy, but fun. You’d be surprised how much a remake can tell you about a person.”

“That tells me a lot about you, Fran. So childish.” Paul has no filter, no worry for anyone else. Did he save Fran that day to save her—or for the privilege of bragging about his own actions? Because at this point, I’m not sure the man cares for anyone but himself.

“Because she believes in hope and love and creating joy,” Rosalie says. She stands, a fist forming at her side. I know just how protective the girl can be. Paul had better watch it.

“I didn’t find any of that joyful.”

I step in front of Rosalie, attempting to keep Fran’s bestie out of trouble.

“She was just trying to create an unforgettable experience,” I say.

“She’s being proactive about creating memories.

What’s wrong with that? And I think she’s right, because that little scene told us a whole lot about you, Paul. ”