The Best Part

(Sensitive Content: mental health and substance abuse)

The fisherman could smell the rain coming. Any minute now, she would dip her graceful fingers into his river and become breath for the trout beneath him. He couldn’t smell lightning. Not yet anyway. But he could hear the thunder calling for his brother to come and join them.

The fisherman turned to the two sisters standing on either side of his small boat. He was their guide for the day, teaching them the way to tie a fly and read the tea-colored water below.

“You two are gonna want to put on your rain jackets. The sky is about to spit on us for a bit.”

The eldest sister dutifully pulled out her coat and zipped it up, flipping the hood over her faded blue baseball cap. The youngest looked at the approaching clouds with wide eyes and sheepishly admitted she had not brought hers. She hadn’t been introduced to the messy nature of Montana skies.

He assured her it happened all the time, reaching beneath his seat to pull out the extra he always kept there. He handed it to her and watched her nose scrunch. He apologized for the mildew.

As he grabbed his oars, the sisters continued casting their lines toward the bank of the river. For city girls new to fly fishing, their aim was pretty damn good. They’d each pulled in half a dozen fish in the few hours they’d been out, and he thanked the god he didn’t believe in for it.

The past two days had been unsuccessful for his clients, and the week before was even worse. He’d gotten an earful from the outfitter he was working for. That morning, he woke up with a sick feeling that clogged his throat and knotted his stomach. When he’d seen the girls walk out of their cabin giggling, one wearing a bikini under her sun shirt so she could get a tan on the river, the knot crept up to wrap its cords throughout his chest.

But – they had surprised him. Sure, they had tangled their lines together the minute he pushed off the shore that morning. But after that incident, they recovered quickly, and he found himself impressed by the way they cast, mended, and set the lines as if they’d been doing it for years.

They threw teasing comments at each other as siblings do, but then the banter was followed by compliments and excited yelps as something nibbled on their hooks. In between bites, they each took turns asking him questions. He’d heard them all before. Small talk had become a suffocating thing encircling his boat. He peered through it at his beloved companion, the landscape that chirped in the growing trees and lapped against the rocky shores.

As the sun started its descent, they drifted into the stretch of dead water he knew all too well. The part of the river he dreaded. As the rain started pattering the beginning of her melody along the surface, the fisherman called his warning to the two girls.

“Now’s the time to sit down if you two needa break. There ain’t no fish in this part of the river.”

He released his oars to flow freely in the black depths beneath them and leaned back in his rickety seat. The sisters looked at each other and threw a few more hopeless casts, but soon enough followed suit. He tensed as he waited for the impulsive questions to start spilling out to fill the long approaching silence.

A few blissful moments passed, filled only with the sound of drops from the sky meeting her resting place on earth. He heard the younger sister inhale, preparing for yet another round of pointless questions. But the older sister cut off the sound.

“This is the best part,” she muttered, as if talking to herself. She had her back to him, head lifted and tilted ever so slightly toward the left riverbank. He watched her stillness, the way she laid her fishing rod down and leaned back in her seat. He waited for more. But nothing else came. So, the three drifted, letting Mother Nature tell them stories until they reached the shore.

The fisherman pulled the boat in as the girls hopped into the water and strode up the bank. Smiles lit their faces, and he felt a small corner of his lip tug up as he packed the car. On the drive back to the lodge, he felt himself relax, the all too familiar knot in his chest seeming to have gone dormant through the course of the day.

By the time they arrived, dinner was being served in the main room. The sisters took their place at the table as conversation flowed between the other guests, tales of the day being shared over freshly baked bread. As the chatter slowed and the plates cleared, a handful of the guests lingered at the long oak table. Soon, a deck of clean white cards was laid out along the rich brown grain.

The fishing guide noticed the eldest sister still lingering, her laughter paused as her brows knit together over the new game she was introduced to. He felt an old tug in his chest as the former bartender inside him asked her if she wanted a drink. She lit up at that, taking a minute to comb through her mind’s menu of liquors. After a pause, she smiled and replied, “Surprise me.”

His favorite answer. He assessed her for a beat and then nodded, his mind landing on the perfect pairing for the girl. He turned and strode back into the empty bar that sat in the back half of the lodge. By the time he returned, the next hand had been dealt, and the girl was studying the cards folded tightly in her hands.

He slid the drink next to her, and she took in the old whiskey glass filled with light pink liquid.

“Oo now that’s a fun color. What is it, or do I have to guess?”

The fisherman answered with confidence, “A whiskey sour. With a dash of grenadine.”

She beamed as she let out a delighted gasp.

“Oh my gosh! Whiskey sours were my favorite in college! I haven’t had one in years.”

Without hesitation, she swiped up the glass and took a swig. Her smile bloomed a petal of warmth in his chest, reminding him how much he’d loved bartending.

“Wow, I’ve never had it with grenadine, this is fantastic. Well done, you just made my new go-to order.”

A grin played across his lips. He watched as she turned back to glance at her cards. She looked around the table at the other players and slyly turned the hand toward him.

“What’s my best play here?” she whispered.

He hesitated, but then accepted the gentle invitation and sat down next to her. With a brief glance at the table, he silently lifted his finger and tapped two of her cards. She nodded slowly and then slipped his choice face down onto the wood. She won that round.

They carried on like that for another hour or so. At one point, the girl proposed another game. One he could join. As she reminded him of the rules, the memory of it surfaced from the dusty corners of his mind. The name. His favorite strategy. The years since he last played. Something in him eased. By the end of the first few rounds, he caught her watching him, noting the risky plays his old gambling habit had left in him. He had shaken the addiction, but the thrill of a guess was still rooted deep.

Eventually, yawns began to infect the group, spreading to the other guests as the night thinned. One by one, they laid down their cards and drifted back to their cabins. But the girl stayed. He stayed.

“Another drink?” he asked, not ready to go back to the unnatural silence occupying his home.

“I could use a nightcap,” she replied.

They made their way through the now-empty lodge to the bar. The barman-turned-fisherman stood behind the counter and poured them both a glass of bourbon as the girl took her place across from him, plopping onto a stool.

As they each took up their drinks, she offered him a cheers. Glasses clinked, and liquor flowed past lips. He settled into a seat across from her.

She looked at him and cocked her head.

“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?”

He huffed something close to a laugh, the question catching him off guard.

“Monkey brains. And it’s eyeballs.”

She echoed his laugh; it bordered on a snort.

“No way.”

“It’s true. I ate the brains with a Saudi Arabian prince while the monkey was still alive. Cracked the skull right open and scooped ‘em out.”

He waited for the look of disgust, the glimmer of judgment. It didn’t come. Instead, her wide eyes shone with curiosity.

“That’s insane. Way better than my answer. What’d it taste like?”

“Squishy,” he replied.

She laughed.

“So, what were you doing with a Saudi Arabian prince?”

He started to tell the tale of his upbringing as an army brat, traveling the world with his father as he was called from country to country. She dived in with him, flowing from one question to the next as she asked about his favorite places and where she should go with her little sister before she went off to law school. Before he knew it, he was pouring another glass and letting the conversation float him down a river. There were no bars encircling this boat.

A natural lull took its place after he had shared the ups and downs of his childhood. The girl took another sip of her bourbon.

“When was your first heartbreak?” she asked.

He paused. Not because he needed to think, but because a question like that deserved to breathe.

“I was 16,” he answered. “She was a few years older. But damn, I fell for her. She was perfect. And she broke my heart right into a million pieces.”

The girl nodded, letting the answer linger. He wondered why she’d asked.

“What was yours?” the fisherman returned. It was the first question he had asked her.

“Never had one.”

He couldn’t hide the shock that rose to his face.

“Bullshit,” he replied.

She shrugged.

“Haven’t found the right guy. I’ve had a few small crushes here and there, but as soon as I found out they didn’t like me back, I was able to switch it off.”

“Who wouldn’t like you? You’re beautiful.” He blurted out the line before he could think better of it. She was far too young for him. To him, it was simply an observation.

She gave a soft smile and stared at her drink. “Thanks,” she said, because it was the polite thing to say, not because she believed it.

“I’ve gained a few pounds recently; I was a lot thinner in college. Not in a healthy way. I’m better now, but still trying to get used to this body.”

It was honest. Vulnerable.

“What do you mean, not in a healthy way?” A risky question from the former gambler.

She looked at him, assessing how much of herself she was willing to give to a man she’d known for a day.

“You want to hear the full story?”

He nodded, curiosity overpowering his rule of getting too close to people who never stayed.

She took a breath. Took a drink.

She started with the anxiety. The panic attacks. The therapist who told her to get on medication if she didn’t want to develop a panic disorder.

It was the worst mistake she ever made.

The girl was prescribed something too strong. It worked its way into her system fast, and within a week, she had turned into someone she didn’t recognize. Someone she couldn’t control. The small pill she swallowed every night for months shattered her, the side effects nearly killing her. It left scars only she could see.

She let the story flow freely between her and the fisherman she had just met, going on to tell the aftermath. The withdrawals, the depression, the insomnia, the loss of appetite. The shell of herself that was left after she got off the medication. And the drugs she started using to cope with the pain.

Addiction grew roots into the grooves the medication had left empty. It felt like healing at first. But it only deepened the cuts. He knew the feeling all too well.

The fisherman listened in silence, the tears welling in his eyes the only thing reflecting his understanding.

She paused, now the one looking at him for the glimmer of judgment, a seed of misunderstanding.

He shamelessly wiped away the tear that escaped, meeting her gaze. He cleared his throat and held up his glass.

“I’m glad you’re still here.” He meant it.

The girl’s eyes misted as she picked up her own glass and tapped it to his.

“Me too.”

They each finished their drinks as the girl finished her story. She shared her recovery. The hard work, the setbacks, the pride she’d earned.

As the tale came to an end, he grabbed the bourbon one last time.

“You got room for one more?” He wasn’t just talking about a drink.

She nodded. As he poured, his own story came out of the bottle. He shared memories from the many lives he’d lived, far different from the girl sitting across from him. And yet, the same thread was woven throughout, binding two people who had survived opposite lives.

By the time he was done, the air felt heavy. But there was warm comfort in it, like the sun shining through the clouds after a rainstorm.

It was the girl’s turn to offer a toast.

“To living,” she said.

“To living,” he replied.

The night slowly came to an end as they continued sharing pieces of their lives. Hours felt like minutes as they drifted to religion, politics, and every other topic he’d sworn never to talk about on his boat. They laughed, analyzed, compared theories, all while finding little reflections of themselves within the other. He never wanted it to end. But eventually, sleep crept its deft hands into their little oasis.

They got up from the bar, and he walked the girl out of the lodge. As she reached her cabin door, she turned to face him. They shared a moment of silence that said more than either of them could say. The fisherman hugged the girl tight.

“I love you, kid,” he said.

“I love you too,” she replied.

The next morning, when he arrived at the lodge, the girl was gone. But when he returned to the river that day, the bars on his boat were gone too.