She washes her hands and dries them on a dish towel. “I’m making BLT sandwiches with potato salad. Are you hungry, dear?”
“For your cooking? Always.”
“Please tell me you aren’t living onPooDashor whatever it’s called.”
“Pft, you know very well, it’s called ‘DoorDash’. Besides, you’ve taught me better than that.”
“Good.”
Grandma fries up more bacon, and as it sizzles, she slices tomatoes and soaks them in a balsamic glaze. Meanwhile, my stomach is growling. As I take another bite of my apple, Granddad walks in, shaking out his umbrella and setting it on the porch.
“Wes,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Good to see you, son.”
“Hey, Granddad!” My nicknames annoy him, so he doesn’t get any. I smile, stand, and yank him into a hug.
“You okay? How’s your job?” He squeezes me tightly.
God, he knows me so well. They all do, but I’m pretty sure Granddad can see into your soul. “Everything’s good, great even, but I wanna run some stuff by you later.”
“Of course. I can pull out the fishing gear if you want.”
“I definitely want.”
Grandma puts a plate with potato salad and a sandwich in front of Granddad and me. “Eat up.”
I take a bite of my sandwich and groan. There’s something inherently more delicious about food that’s made by someone else. I love to cook, but my meals never turn out as good as Grandma’s.
We chat mostly about my job. I haven’t told them about Jett yet. I’m saving that discussion for my Granddad later, even if they’re already aware of my unhealthy obsession with him from when I was a kid.
After lunch, Granddad and I head to the shed in the backyard and pull out the fishing gear. We drop it in the back of his pickup and head to the bait and tackle shop.
He doesn’t talk nearly as much as I do, but when he does, it’s always filled with sage advice. Mom and Grandma are smart with these things, too, but I need someone who will give me objective advice.
We’re fishing away from the beachgoers as much as possible. It’s after the summer, so it’s not too crowded with tourists. The temperature is in the low 60s, and the waves are calm. At least it’s stopped raining.
No one swims unless they have a wetsuit, but little kids play on the edge of the water, looking for shells and sand dollars.
In the distance is the infamous Haystack Rock. Cannon Beach is filled with smaller ones. Dennis used to live therepractically, checking out the tidepools, while my eyes were always fixed on girls in bikinis.
I throw my pole behind me and toss the line into the air. When it lands in the water, I slowly reel it back until a fish hopefully takes the bait. It doesn’t, so I reel the line all the way in and toss it out again.
“When we first fished, you used to get so frustrated,” he says.
I smile at that. “Well, when you’re little, you want everything to happen immediately.”
He chuckles and tosses his line out. “True.”
“Eventually, I came to love our fishing time. It chilled me out a lot. Taught me patience.”
“Patience is subjective when it comes to you, Wes.”
I stick out my tongue at him. He laughs and slowly reels in his line. “So, what’s troubling you, son?”
“Remember Jett Cordier? Back in high school? The runner?”
Granddad tries to hide his smile, but fails miserably. “How could I not remember? He’s all you could talk about for your entire freshman year. The entire house remembers Jett.”
“Tsh, well, when you say it like that… Yeesh. Sorry, I asked.”
