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“That was one of the first things I asked you, remember? I asked you if you got your scar in jail.”
I laughed, reaching out to grip his shoulder and give him a playful little shake. “That’s right. I forgot about that.”
His grin faded as his eyes dropped to my hand. Then, he said in a small, quiet voice, “My dad said you’re a murderer.”
There it was. The question I had dreaded the most. The one I’d been avoiding.
“He did,” I replied, holding steady to the rod and my composure.
“Why would he say that?”
“Because”—I sucked in the scent of the beach and exhaled—“I killed someone, Noah.”
“What?” He was shrill, shocked, and—fuck me—scared, and I wondered how he’d managed to live in this town all these months without hearing someone say something about my past.
“Listen to me,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I’m not a murderer. It wasn’t intentional. But someone died because of something I had done a long time ago, and that’s why I was in prison.”
The fear seemed to dissipate from his eyes as the tension left his shoulders, and I was filled with relief. But he was still clearly uneasy about what I’d told him, and who could blame him? Death wasn’t an easy concept for anybody to understand or accept, especially not a kid who had yet to experience a loss of that caliber. To stand beside someone you knew—someoneclose—who had ended someone else’s life was an even more difficult thing to come to terms with, and I couldn’t expect him to take it in stride.
“We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” I told him, filling the air with something other than the seagulls above and those ladies’ muffled whispers. “But if you want to, if you have questions or whatever, I want you to know you can ask me.”
Noah nodded, keeping his eyes on the pole in his hands. “Well … who died?”
“My best friend, Billy,” I told him. “Remember that friend I tell you about sometimes? The one who passed away?”
He nodded.
“Well, that’s the friend. We had known each other for areally longtime.”
“Oh … were you sad when he died?”
I didn’t mean to scoff, but the question seemed as absurd as the audacity of those women. Openly staring at a guy who was clearly trying to enjoy a nice day with a kid who could’ve been his son.
“Of courseI was sad,” I said,incredulous. “He was my best friend, Noah. I didn’twanthim to die. It was a horrible accident—that’s all.”
“But then why did you go to jail?”
“Because his death happened as a result of somethingstupidIhad done,” I tried to explain without wanting to divulge that I’d been making money as a part-time drug dealer. “And because I had made that stupid mistake, I had to pay the price for it, so I did.”
“Oh,” he repeated, nodding with a little more acceptance than before. “So … you’rereallynot a bad guy.”
“No. Definitely not a bad guy.” Then, I pursed my lips and looked up to a sky of fluffy clouds. “Well, at least, I don’t think so anyway. But I guess, if you ask around, you might find someone who thinks I am. I mean, the jury’s still out on Mrs. Montgomery …”
“Yeah, right.” Noah laughed, rolling his eyes in my direction. “Mrs. Montgomery loves you. She stopped by the library the other day and told Mom that if she were younger, she wouldn’t be able to keep her handsoff ofyou.”
I barked with a laugh, staring at Noah. “She didnotsay that.”
“Oh, yeah, shedefinitelydid. She also said you have a nice butt.”
“That old perv.” I chuckled heartily, still unsure of what to make of that old woman.
My laughter faded as westaredoff into the distance, watching the lures out in the water, bobbing against the surface, not catching a damn thing. It was the gamble you took when you went fishing—a lesson I’d learned years ago. Sometimes, youcameaway with nothing but a nice day outside. Other times, the day itself was hideous, but you brought home enough fish to feed your family for a couple of weeks.
The last time I’d been fishing, we had caught a cooler’s worth of bass. But theywereall been shamefully forgotten as we planned a funeral and settled into a new normal of not having Grampa around.Grammaeventually told me to toss that old cooler in the dumpster by the school. Just to spare me the added trauma of scooping out two-week-old dead fish.
Believe me, ithad beenappreciated.
“Man, I think this isgonnabe a bust,” I muttered, shaking my head with disappointment. “It’s still early, but—”
