Page 55 of Big Stick Energy
I keep sneaking looks at Darcy while she and my mom chat about fruit pies. What’s weird about this moment is how it doesn’t feel that weird. It should be a shock to sit in my childhood kitchen with Darcy and my parents, but somehow it isn’t.
If you think about it, though, we’ve already traveled the continent together. All those trips on the team jet. Bleary mornings and early practices. We’ve shared cramped charter buses and delayed flights and the weird intimacy of two a.m. take-out food after overtime losses.
We already know so many things about each other. I knowshe prefers herbal tea in the evenings. I know she brings a backup phone charger on every road trip because someone always forgets theirs, and I know which snacks she packs in her carry-on.
I know she reads romance novels on long flights but hides the covers. I know she has a tiny scar above her left eyebrow.
And, sure, maybe it’s weird that I have her favorite pie memorized. But when my mother asked me her preferences, I didn’t even hesitate.
Darcy pushes her empty plate away. “I couldn’t eat another bite. Let me help with the dishes.”
“You don’t have to do that,” my father says.
“I insist.”
I rise and put a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “You can help for a few minutes, but then I’m stealing you away somewhere.”
“Where?” she demands, gathering the pie plates from the table.
“You’ll see. Give me ten minutes.”
I pop out to the garage for a moment, opening the extra refrigerator to look for… there it is. I pull out a frozen Ziplock and carry it into the kitchen. Then I grab a bowl and fill it with hot water, popping the baggie inside. “Brought you something,” I say to Darcy, who’s loading the dishwasher while my mother beams.
“What?”
“Cut-up bait fish.”
Confusion crosses her features, but then she smiles. “Eric Tremaine. Aren’t you a romantic. No wonder young women proposition you on Instagram.”
My father chokes on his beer.
“Want to go fishing?” I offer.
She shuts off the faucet. “You know I do! Let me just get a sweater.”
“Reels are by the back door,” my dad calls. “Outboard key is on the peg!”
Ten minutes later, we push off in my dad’s skiff. I run the motor for just a few minutes, until we’re far enough from the dock that we can drift. The cove is quiet, just the gentle lapping of the water against the hull. The sky is starting to tint orange over the mainland.
Darcy sits across from me on the bench seat in cut-off shorts, her sweater pulled tightly around her, eyes bright with excitement. “Thank you for bringing me out here. You must have spent so much time out here as a kid.”
“You know it. Danny and I were in a lifelong battle to see who could catch the bigger fish.”
Once again, I’m seeing this the way Darcy sees it—like a bit of adventure under a deepening sky. The sun’s last rays shimmering on the water, and the boat’s gentle wobble.
She fiddles with the fishing pole. “Okay, so how does this work? I just drop the line and hope for the best?”
“Hold up.” I pass her a rod and then I bring the baggie of thawed baitfish when I carefully seat myself beside her. “You need to hook the bait first.”
She eyes the glistening fish chunks in the dish with deep suspicion. “Oh no. Wouldn’t my boyfriend do that for me?”
“Fakeboyfriend,” I say with a grin. “And it’s a rite of passage.”
She eyes the bait like it might bite her. Then, with a deep breath, she picks up a chunk and tentatively threads it onto the hook. “This is vile.”
“No, it’s romantic,” I say, amused. “Now, just drop the line in and let it sink a little.”
She follows my instructions, biting her lip as she watches the line disappear into the dark water. For a long moment, we sit in companionable silence, the skiff rocking gently beneath us.
