Annelly

I watch from the edge of the trees as James lays out the blanket with military precision, straightening each corner like it might ruin everything if it’s not perfect. He’s already unpacked lunch—two sandwiches, bottled water, a bag of chips folded shut with a chip clip, like even his snacks need structure.

It should annoy me how controlled he is. How everything he does feels calculated and measured. But it doesn’t. It never really has, because beneath all that precision is care. Every detail he obsesses over has been pre-planned in his mind to make sure everyone around him is safe. Comfortable. 

When I’m with James, I never have to worry about my physical safety. 

I sigh.

Just my emotional one.

And as I watch him now, I know exactly what this picnic is. It’s him trying to fix things. Not with more apologies, he struggles to articulate, but with action. With peace. He’s giving us something sacred. A quiet space to ease the hurt that was inflicted last night.

I walk to the water’s edge, gaze drifting across the shimmering lake where a pair of Canadian geese glide lazily through the glassy surface. The wind rustles the pine needles overhead, and the ensuing sound is like an exhale. 

Like letting go. 

As the breeze lifts the loose wisps of hair from my braid, I close my eyes and sigh along with the forest.

Somewhere nearby, something splashes into the shallows. Probably a frog, startled by James’s movements as he finishes setting up. 

The whole lake feels untouched. Still. Like time has paused just for us. 

And before I even realize it, my body begins to relax. Not because I’m trying. Just… because it can. 

Out here, no one is making demands of me. There’s no danger breathing down our necks. No anxious thoughts chasing themselves into exhaustion. And because of it, for the first time in days—maybe even months—I don’t feel like I’m holding myself together by sheer will and grit alone.

Behind me, James clears his throat.

“You wanna come over and I’ll show you what to do?”

I turn to find him holding out a fishing pole, one of the two he carried down from the porch. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is gentle. Like he’s offering more than just a rod. Like he’s offering me a place beside him. 

“Sure,” I say, brushing my hands on my leggings as I step forward and sink onto the blanket.  

He sits down beside me and unlatches the tackle box, pulling out several plastic organizers. I grab the one closest to me, pop open the lid, and scan the contents. 

Lures. 

Makes sense. We didn’t bring worms or live bait. We had no reason to stop at a bait shop on the way to the safe house. 

Looking out across the lake, I assess the water’s conditions and settle on a bright copper spinner I think will do the trick. Without hesitation, I begin threading the line through the eye.

It’s all muscle memory.

Thumb and index finger. Steady tension. Five wraps around the line. And voilà… a clinch knot.

I can still hear my dad’s voice in my head: Strong knots catch strong fish, kiddo.

I smile faintly, tugging the end tight with a slow, practiced pull. 

When I glance up, James is staring at me like I’ve just grown wings.

“What?” I ask.

He blinks, startled, like I caught him off guard. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

I arch a brow. “You thought I couldn’t fish?”

“I—I didn’t know.” His mouth curves slightly, but it’s not teasing. It’s something softer. “I certainly didn’t expect you to know how to do that.” He gestures to the lure now secured to my line. “That’s not beginner stuff. You’re obviously a pro.”

I laugh at that. “A pro? I don’t know about that. But this? Yeah. This I can do.” I glance down at the knot again. “Thanks to my dad. He taught me.” 

To my surprise, those words come easier than I expect. In the four years since he died, I’ve done everything I can to avoid talking about him. 

“Fishing was one of our things. Every spring, he’d drag me out of bed at three in the morning for trout opening day. We’d drive out to this one spot near Shadow Falls, hike in with donuts, breakfast sandwiches, and a thermos of coffee—he let me have some even when I was little, as long as I promised not to tell Mom. It was our secret.” 

I smile, even as my eyes well up at the memory. “And we’d get set up before the sun even peeked over the ridge. He used to say the best fish only bite before the world wakes up.” I pause, the memory catching me off guard. Warmth and ache tangle in my chest like the knot on the end of my line. 

I breathe in and swallow hard, forcing down the lump of grief that still rises when I think about him.   

I’m sure he notices. I’m just grateful he doesn’t make it a big deal. 

Instead, he turns his attention to securing a lure to his pole as he asks. “You were close?” 

“Yeah.” I nod, eyes back on the water. “He was everything to me. My mom and I… I swear we butted heads from the minute I was born. But Dad and I—we just got each other, you know? We had our shows—TV, movies, the theatre, concerts, anything involving acting or putting on a performance, we were there. Then there were our jokes—ones that were funny only to us. Our early morning drives before the sun came up. He taught me to fish, to camp, to read Shakespeare, and yell at the TV during game night—football, baseball, hockey, basketball, even the Olympics, and bowling. As long as there was competition involved, it didn’t matter. We cheered and we booed like we had something personal riding on every score.” 

I sigh, part sadness, part longing. 

I miss him so badly, it feels like my chest is caving in. 

“He made space for me to be whoever I was. Whoever I wanted to be. He gave me the courage to be who I am.”

I swallow again, that old grief flaring sharp behind my ribs.

“Mom… I think she resented it sometimes. I didn’t see it back then. I didn’t get it. But now… yeah. I think I understand. It must’ve been hard, always being on the outside. Always the one enforcing the rules, paying the bills, running the diner, taking on all the grown-up responsibilities. She had to be the parent. While he and I… we got to be friends. Best friends.”

James doesn’t say anything, but I feel him listening. The kind of listening I need. The kind that doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just holds space.

The same kind of silence my father used to give me.

I let it settle between us for a beat, the sound of water lapping gently at the lake’s edge filling the space where my dad’s memory used to live. Then I glance at James, sitting with his elbows on his knees, watching the water like he’s picturing my father and me. Picturing the life I lost that dreaded day four years ago.

He looks sad. Lost.

Just like me. 

And I hate it. 

So I clear my throat and try to change the subject. 

“What about you?” I ask softly. “What were you and Tyler like growing up?”

He doesn’t look at me. Just exhales through his nose and gives a small shrug. “Not much to tell. Mom was strung out most of the time. My dad… never met him. I don’t think my mom even knew who he was. Tyler’s dad… he tried to make a go of things with her. Tried to take care of us. But the drugs always meant more. Eventually, he left too. Probably to save himself. Not that I blame him.” 

He exhales again, louder this time, like he’s trying to shake it off. Like he just realized everything he said out loud, and wishes he hadn’t. 

“Anyway. Not a big deal. None of that matters. Life’s good now.” 

His tone is casual. Too casual. Far more upbeat than it should be. Like he’s performing, not just for me, but for himself. 

But no amount of pretending can hide the tension in his voice. The way his shoulders pull tight under his shirt. Or the way he keeps his eyes locked on the water, like he’s afraid of what I’ll see if he turns and looks at me.

He picks up a rock and flings it across the lake. It skips several times, then sinks. Fast. Final. 

“Tyler and I figured out early on we were better off fending for ourselves. Taking care of one another. Keeping each other safe.”

Though my heart aches for the two little boys behind those words, I’m careful not to react. Like he did for me, I give him space. 

Space to process. 

To elaborate. 

But he doesn’t. 

And I realize he’s not avoiding talking about the past because it doesn’t matter. He’s avoiding it because it does.

He talks like it’s over. Like he’s moved past it. 

But I see it.

The weight he still carries.

The years of being let down, overlooked, and discarded. 

They’re all there, woven into the fabric of his being. Into the tension in his jaw. The guarded edge of his voice. In the way he won’t meet my eyes now that I’ve seen even a sliver of where he came from. 

His trauma.

The way he reacts when he feels trapped and vulnerable. 

It all makes so much sense. 

So I don’t push.

Because some truths—especially the important ones, the life-changing ones—can’t be pulled or forced out. 

They have to be given. 

Freely.

And right now, I can tell… this is as far as he’s willing to go.

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