Page 33 of Wicked Player
I smile. “Yes, I’ve seen you zoom by. Nice boat,” I quip, all the while looking at my own boat, a tiny Bowrider I’ve named Antoinette, after my late grandmother who gave us this place. It’s not much but it gets us from A to B. Christian and I love to take it out on the lake and jump off of the back. We also use it for fishing, but that’s more Christian’s thing than mine.
We watch Christian as he pulls out his minnow trap. He’s giddy when he sees he’s caught something. “Look, mommy… I caught a baby catfish!”
Colton makes a face, and we go stand to take a closer look. The man looks disgusted.
I laugh. “What? I know they’re ugly. Mr. Moneypants doesn’t like fish?” I tease.
He laughs and shakes his head. “It’s not that,” he says. “That’s not a baby catfish. That’s a Round Goby, an invasive species. You’re supposed to get rid of those.”
Christian throws it back in the water. “What do you mean, Mister?”
“That’s a bad fish, kid. They eat fish eggs, and they can cause diseases in fish and also in birds who eat fish.”
Christian listens attentively, wide-eyed. He never knew there were bad fish out there. Yep, there are bad fish. And bad people too.
He fiddles with his minnow trap, and we both watch him.
Colton adjusts his aviator shades and settles back down, and damn if he doesn’t look cool, leaning back on my dock chair. “So where are your parents right now?” he asks.
“My dad left us when I was ten,” I tell him. “Remember? I told you about him.” I don’t go into more specifics. I don’t tell him he was always drunk.
“Yes… sorry.” His face falls. “I’m so sorry, Clara.”
I shrug. “We all have our sad stories I guess,” I say, thinking about his own story, sadder than mine in so many ways.
“And your mom…” he hesitates. “She’s still around, right?”
“Yes,” I smile, brought back to her last Instagram posts. “She’s in Costa Rica.”
“Living her best life, I’m sure.”
I laugh. “Yes, her current beau is a good fifteen years younger than her.”
“Go, Mom,” he cheers. “Good for her.”
I bite my lip. “You like the May December thing?” I ask. “You like dating younger women?”
He stares at the planks on the dock, not quite looking at me. “I like all women… all ages.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do, Casanova.”
He shakes his head. “I’m many things, Clara, but a Casanova is not one of them.”
“Are you sure about that, Mr. I-Throw-Exclusive-Ladies-Only-Parties every month?”
“Well, you got me there,” he concedes and then quickly changes the subject. “I never come around here,” he says. “It’s so quiet and nice out here.”
“Well, it is a dead end,” I point out, “and also where the degenerates live… the misfits.”
He laughs. “The degenerates?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” There is no need to say more. The rich lake folks with the gorgeous mansions and fancy boats look down on us bay folks and our small cabins and crappy boats. But I’d rather be on this side any day of the week. Here, folks talk to each other. We’re all friends. We bring each other food, check in on each other. We go ride our quads together, go fishing, go out on the lake for a swim together. “You know we talk shit about you lake folks,” I tease.
He laughs. “Who’s we?”
“Me and my neighbors… when we go out on the lake.”
“And what do the fine folks of Windy Bay have to say about us?”
