Page 40 of The Last Thing You Said

He’s not kidding. After we drop anchor, he struggles with the tackle and the reel and panics every time he gets a bite. But my dad is patient with him, like he was when he taught us, and eventually Simon fumbles through the process himself.

“So how’s Halcyon Lake treating you and your mom, Simon?” Dad asks.

Simon bites his lower lip as he hooks a night crawler and casts out. “So far, so good.”

I’m nervous for him—anxious that he won’t catch anything and be disappointed in himself, worried that he and my dad won’t have anything in common.

“You get to many Twins games?” It was only a matter of time before my dad brought up baseball.

“Never been. Not much of a sports fan, I guess.”

Dad clears his throat. “Huh.” There’s a tug on Dad’s line, though, so he turns his attention to the fish, which turns out to be a nice-size rock bass.

“Uh, are that thing’s eyes red?” Simon leans closer to the fish with muddled bronze scales. Its harsh red eye against the whitish mouth is like something out of a horror movie.

“Yep. Pretty little thing, isn’t it?”

I laugh at the look of disgust that crosses Simon’s face.

Dad leans over the side of the boat to drop the fish back into the lake.

“You’re not keeping it?”

“Nah, we’ll let someone else have a little fun with him.” Dad casts out again. “So, what do you do if you’re not into sports?”

“Painting. I used to take piano lessons.” His bobber sinks a little and he leans over, excited, but then, nothing. “Shoot. I watch a lot of movies. I’m kind of a James Bond aficionado.”

“You like double-oh-seven?” There’s excitement in Dad’s voice, and I know exactly what he’ll say next. “Who’s your favorite Bond?”

I hope that Simon gets this right.

“Well, I have to say that I’m really impressed with Daniel Craig, and you can’t go wrong with the classic Sean Connery, but honestly? My favorite has always been Roger Moore.”

Dad turns to Simon and grins. “That’s what I like to hear.”

There’s a tug on Simon’s line so hard, he’s pulled forward and nearly loses his balance. I set down my rod and move to help him.

“Easy.” I put my hand over his on the reel, and when we land a northern pike into the net, a smile spreads across his face so wide, I can’t help but match it.

22 · Ben

Father’s Day.

Another first without Trixie. Mother’s Day sucked, and I don’t expect today to be any better.

I wake up early. It’s my day off, and even though Mum narrowed her eyes and pinched her lips when I told her yesterday, Guthrie and I are planning on taking out the pontoon and hitting up Story Lake for walleye.

Dad’s downstairs, and, by the looks of it, he hasn’t slept. He sits on the couch, his hand tight around an empty lowball tumbler. I walk past him, not saying anything, hoping that he won’t notice.

But he does.

“Ben, son, c’mere.” He’s crying.

This is the worst I’ve seen him. He’s drunk and he’s crying and I can’t handle this. It’s fucking Father’s Day, and I want to get the hell out of here. I don’t want to see this; I don’t want to acknowledge him, acknowledge what’s happening to him.

I guess I’m not any better.

“What do you need, Dad?” My voice shakes. “You should get some sleep.”