“You’ve done this a lot, haven’t you?” I say, watching curiously.
“My dad’s been taking us out since I could walk.” He grins. “I caught my first two-footer before I turned seven.”
“That’s . . . nice.” The father-bonding part, not the fish killing, obviously.
“Hey, why don’t you set up the fire, and I’ll rustle us up a proper meal. It won’t take long, now that I’ve got some decent bait.” Ethan holds up a mess of fish entrails.
“Eww!”
He laughs, looking around. “There’s a bunch of dry scrub over there. You do know how to make a fire, right?”
“Yes! Well, I’m pretty sure.” I hop down. “It can’t be that hard. . . .”
Ethan raises an eyebrow. “We’ll see . . .”
My kindling skills pass the test, because soon we’re settled around a small — but impressive — campfire. “Good job.” Ethan applauds me, poking at the fish with a gnarled branch. He managed to quickly catch another and wrapped them in squares of newspaper, burying them deep in the embers. For all my promises to stick to the Doritos, I can’t help but be intrigued by the singed packages.
“I cheated,” I admit, pulling my sweatshirt hood up. Our clothes are dry now, and just in time — the afternoon has clouded over, and the temperature is dropping. “I just copied what I saw Reeve do on my first night.”
“Hey, you got it going just fine.” Ethan prods the fire. “OK, they’re done.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because now I’m really hungry.” He grins. “So, what do you say? Going to honor Derek’s life the way nature intended?”
“Derek?” I laugh.
“Yeah, he seemed like a Derek.” Wincing at the heat, Ethan pulls the packages out and tosses one in front of me. I waver. He tears his paper open, revealing pale flakes of steaming fish inside. “A little seasoning . . .” With a flourish, Ethan upends the bag of chips, scattering the last tiny pieces over the top. “And voilà!” He uses a plastic fork and digs in.
“Well . . .” I watch him eat. “I guess if Derek was already a goner. And it was an accident. . . .”
“Fish slaughter,” Ethan agrees, blowing on a forkful.
“OK.” I give in. Gingerly unwrapping my own paper, I take a forkful. It’s delicious: soft, flaky, and unbelievably fresh. “Rest in peace, Derek,” I say. And then I take another bite.
17
Ethan must have cleared things up about our non-romantic relationship, because when I run into Grady in town the next day, he doesn’t make a single joke about it. In fact, his noncommittal grunts are about the friendliest I’ve ever heard from him. And when Susie announces that they’ve finished another bedroom for me — painted with pretty pale blue paint and far down the hall from Fiona’s pit of doom — I feel like things are finally looking up.
But some things never change.
“I don’t want lemon yellow! What do you think I am, some kind of freaking moron?” The now-familiar sound of thumping footsteps and slamming doors echoes through the house as Fiona flees another loud argument. As I snuggle deeper in my crisp new linens, I send out silent thanks that I’m no longer prisoner to her moods. My new room is cool, calm, and utterly peaceful — and free of all scowling emo posters.
When I’m sure the coast is clear, I edge downstairs.
“Morning.” I find Susie sitting on the skeletal back porch, surreptitiously smoking a cigarette. She looks up, guilty.
“You didn’t see this.” She takes another quick drag. “I quit when I met Adam — he hates it.”
“These lips, sealed.” I mime zipping them shut, taking a seat next to her. The backyard is chaotic, as usual, strewn with tools and haphazard piles of wood. “What is it this time?”
Susie gives me a rueful look. “Does it matter? She finds a way to fight over everything.”
I pat her shoulder sympathetically. Susie looks so small and worn out, sitting here in the middle of all this mess, like she’s the confused teenager, instead of Fiona. “She’ll come around eventually,” I reassure her, even though I’m not sure it’s true. “But . . . I was wondering. What happened with her mom?”
Susie sighs. “She bailed about five years ago. Decided she couldn’t make things work with Adam and just took off. She lives down in Houston now, remarried a while ago.”
“Why didn’t Fiona go with her?”
Susie looks up at me. “I don’t think her mom ever asked for her.”
“Oh.” There’s silence, and then Susie speaks.
“I’ve tried to be supportive, but I just don’t know what more I can do.” I’m surprised to hear Susie’s voice waver. “We’re still behind schedule on the construction, and Adam is working all the time, and I’m so busy I barely ever see him.” She swallows. “Did you know it’s our anniversary today? A year since we met.” She lets out a long breath, adding, “I was taking photographs for that travel company I used to work for, and he was in the bar one night . . .”
“That’s great.” I try to rouse her with a smile. “Have you got anything special planned?”
“We haven’t really had time.” She sighs. “I think we’re going to just wait until things are quieter here, you know, when we’re not so stressed.”
“Umm, sure. Good plan!” I lie. The whole point of an anniversary is to be celebrated, not delayed, but Susie seems resigned.
“OK, hon.” She takes another drag. “I better get back to work.” Stubbing out her cigarette, she gives me a bashful grin. “Back to hiding behind gum and air freshener — it’s like I’m sixteen again!”
Susie disappears back into the house, but I stay out in the shade a while longer, going over her problems. I can’t help thinking that she and Adam need some quality time together. Every time I see them, they’re talking about plumbing fixtures or studying blueprints — not exactly the best way to keep the romance alive. No, what they need is a private anniversary celebration, something to help them unwind . . .
Without Fiona.
I sigh. That mountain man manual would say I need to bait and distract my foe, but short of locking her in the basement or kidnapping her, I can’t see how she’d leave her father and much-loathed stepmom for a romantic evening alone. Hmmm.