Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“Or you and I are gonna have a real problem.” He sets his jaw and, with a deep breath, puffs out his chest. But there’s that glint of fear in his eyes. That’s one of many things I learned to recognize on the inside—when a grown man’s acting tough but he’s ready to shit his pants. Jon can’t hide it from me. He’s afraid because he knows he wouldn’t stand a chance if it came down to it, but he’d take the beating in the name of my family.
Fuck this guy … I hate to admit it, but I’m starting to like him.
“You and I are not gonna have a problem,” I say evenly. “I can promise you that.”
Jon’s shoulders sink. “Enjoy fishing.” With that, he’s out the door, offering a “Hey, stranger” to someone outside.
A beat later, Jameson strolls in, bleary-eyed and wearing the same clothes as last night.
“It’s like a fucking highway this morning. What are you doin’ here?”
“Jack called me to come pick you up. He’s meetin’ us at the boat launch. Something to do with the ex.” Jameson rolls his eyes and shakes his head, as if there’s always “something to do with the ex” and no point asking for details anymore. “Get your shit.”
“You’re early, and I gotta clean a horse stall first.”
“Fine. I’ll be asleep in my truck until you’re ready.” He ambles out.
And I drag my ass back up the stairs to collect my things.
The shade along the lengthy access road finally gives way to the morning sun as Jameson parks his truck. “He said he’d meet us as soon as he could get here. We might have to chill by the dock for a bit.”
“I’m good with that.” I’m good with anything that gets me on that water again. I hop out, bringing with me the rod I fixed on the hour-long ride.
“Hasn’t changed much, huh?” Jameson notes through an exaggerated stretch before tugging on a fleece jacket to cut the cold. “Still the best-kept secret. Too far for Toronto folks, thank God. They still think Wasaga Beach is up north.” He air-quotes with a mocking snort and then grabs his fishing gear and a cooler from his truck bed. “One time, this girl I met—”
“Fuck, you talk a lot.” Especially early in the morning. I’m beginning to see why Jack was reluctant to have his brother come with us.
“Gotta balance out your broody ass,” he mumbles, but then grins.
And thankfully shuts up.
I inhale the fresh air as we trudge along the gravel road toward the landing—a few wooden docks to receive boats and a ramp that disappears into the lake, where people can back their trailers into the water. A couple is there now, a woman carefully reversing as the man stands in the center of a pontoon loaded with building supplies, gesturing for her to keep going.
Cars line either side of the road. Most of them are property owners who park their vehicles and boat out to their cottage or camp or to Bear Island where the Temagami First Nation community resides.
“Isn’t this Jack’s truck?” I point out the royal blue Dodge Ram 2500 with a blue decal of a loon in its back window. It’s a new and expensive big truck, all the more conspicuous parked next to a little green dented Civic.
“Huh? Oh yeah, it is.” Jameson points toward the water and his brother, who’s already waiting in an aluminum utility fishing boat, and shouts, “You’re already here!” His booming voice echoes over the calm, quiet waters.
Jack shakes his head at his brother. “I regret this already.”
“So, Logan.” Jack leans back in his pedestal seat and closes his eyes as the warm midmorning sun beats down on us and we float, waiting for our rods to bow with a catch. “Is this as good as you remember it being?”
“The chairs are definitely as shitty.” I shift my body, trying to get comfortable in the hard plastic.
Their relaxed chuckles carry.
“Honestly, man,” he prods.
“Honestly?” My gaze wanders over the dense forest and the Precambrian rock cliffs that form the shorelines, up to iconic eastern white pines that tower, back down to the loon that glides over still water before disappearing beneath, only to reemerge in a different spot twenty seconds later. The sole sounds out here are the birds and the odd hum of a small boat engine, and the gentle strokes of a paddle pushing through water as a white-haired gentleman passes nearby in his kayak. Anywhere else, this level of quiet might be considered eerie, unsettling. But out here in the wilderness, it’s utter peace. “It’s a million times better than I remember it. But everything is.”
Especially last night with Emery.
I can still smell her hair and taste her skin and feel her body moving with mine.
I can still hear the regret in her voice this morning when she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.