“Am I ready to kick your ass in fish counts?” I ask, pulling the cap lower over my eyes before stepping into the giant boots. “You betcha.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, you heard the captain say all of this but I’m sure you were thinking about my naked body or buying new makeup for your hair, so I’m going to remind you: This boat fishes halibut, rockfish, and bass. The halibut can get pretty big, but don’t worry”—he gives me a winning smile—“I’ll help you pull them in.”
“I’ll have you know I am a regular at kickboxing class,” I tell him, acting offended. “And I surf.”
“Right, but you won’t be pulling these fish up with your legs.” He grabs my skinny arm and shakes it like a chicken wing before taking my rod from its stand and casting the line deep into the water. The fish bait on the end lands with a heavy plunk and Finn grins as he hands the rod over to me. “Put it in the stand. Your arms will get tired if you’re fighting the water while we move.”
I do as he says and watch him cast his line out. He looks so happy, and I’m torn between wanting every viewer in America to see this expression on this face on their giant HD televisions and wanting his private joy to stay that way.
“Do you think you would hate having a camera on you while you do this?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s not that so much as the idea that the show wouldn’t really be about fishing.”
“But what if it was?” I ask. “What if that’s your condition?”
He pulls his cap off his head and scratches his scalp with his little finger. “Yeah. I don’t know.”
I think neither of us wants to think about it after that, because we fall quiet, watching the water and the birds and, probably more than anything, each other.
ALMOST AS IF the fish sense that Finn will more quickly put them out of their misery than I will, he catches three before I’ve even had a bite: two rockfish and a huge halibut. If I said it bothered me that he’s crushing it and I’m sucking, I’d be lying. Nothing is better than watching Finn reel a forty-pound fish up onto the deck.
That’s not entirely true. Sex with Finn on this very deck might be better . . . but only slightly. The sun is warm out on the open water and he’s taken off his fleece; the sight of his tanned forearms as he pulls and reels the line in . . . it . . . it might cause me to spontaneously orgasm.
“It’s going to be weird to leave, even though it’s only been a couple weeks,” he says, oblivious to my leering, and casting his line back into the water. I blink, clearing the fog of my Finn Lust and wait to hear what he means. It seems to me, from watching him today, that he would want nothing more than to get back to his life on the water.
“Weird how?”
He surprises me, saying, “I don’t think I’ll like not being able to see you whenever I want.”
This is not at all what I expected. I expected him to mean he’s going to miss the Southern California weather or awesome burritos or hanging with Oliver and Ansel.
I want more than anything to reach up, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him like I’ve never kissed anyone before, out of relief that he’s nearly perfect.
Instead I say, “I masturbated thinking about you last night.”
He bends over, bursting out laughing when I say this. Finally he manages, “You did?”
“Absolutely.”
When he straightens, I can see a hint of a blush on his face beneath the shadow of his baseball cap. That’s new. “Me, too,” he admits.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Was I awesome?”
He turns and looks at me. “You sucked dick like a champion, Ginger Snap.”
“I would, too.” I give him a proud lift of my chin.
He reels in his line a couple of feet. “You would.”
I always expected to fall in love and feel jittery or hyperaware or overwhelmed. I never expected falling in love with someone would just make me feel even more comfortable in my own skin. I sort of want to tell him, “I think I love you,” because I suspect he would make a soft sound of sympathy and agree that it’s unfortunate timing.
I glance over at him, at his angled, stubbly jaw, his long tan neck and the arms that give me an odd sense of safety I never knew I craved. But didn’t I? Isn’t that who my father has always been until recently—not only my sounding board, but my rock, my guardian? I did know I always wanted any man in my life to live up to that expectation.
My chest hurts with how tight it’s grown from recognizing that steady, passionate, loyal Finn is what I always hoped I’d find.
He looks out across the water, his eyes narrowing and I wonder what he’s thinking. His chest lifts with a deep inhale and he closes his eyes as he exhales, his expression looking as torn as I feel.
I know I’m right when he opens his eyes and glances over at me. And this is terrifying, because if there’s one thing I know about my heart, it’s that it isn’t fickle. Once someone gets inside, they burrow deep in there, permanently.
Just when I open my mouth to say something—and I have no idea what is going to come out, but sincere emotion has risen high in my throat—my rod jerks in front of me, the entire top half bowing sharply.
“Whoa, okay,” Finn says, eyes lighting up with excitement as he steps forward and guides me closer to my rod. “You’ve got one.”
Fishing with my dad in the rivers of Northern California when I was a kid in no way prepared me for the process of hauling a fish in from the ocean. When it’s a nine-inch trout in a river, your bobber dunks underwater and your skinny twelve-year-old arms can easily reel that sucker in. Here it takes every muscle in my body to pit myself against this swimming beast. I tug the rod, turn the reel in mere centimeters, each one a victory. Beside me Finn shouts and whoops as if I’m hauling in a great white shark. A couple of men gather behind us to watch, calling out their encouragements.
“Want me to take over?” Finn yells over the cheering.
“Fuck no!”
But now I know why he took his fleece off; I’m sweating, swearing, cursing the moment I decided deep-sea fishing was a good idea. But when I get the first glimpse of the halibut on my line—of the spikes along its spine, of the sheer size of it—I’m giddy.
“My fish is so much bigger than your fish!” I yell.
Finn steps behind me to help me pull, taking over the reel after about ten minutes, when my hand starts to shake and grow numb. With both of us holding the rod, we pull, and pull, and finally the halibut comes out of the water, glorious. It flops on the deck, and I hate that part a little, but then Finn holds it and does something so fast I can barely see, and it goes still. The fish is ice cold from the water when he hands it back to me, and with a little gesture he indicates that I hold it up by the gills so he can take a picture.