The Lost Fisherman (Fisherman #2)(50)

After another group hike, lunch, and taking a million pictures, we started a fire for dinner, and then we drank too much. The conversation took a turn because of me. Someone should have cut me off earlier.

“Have you ever told Fisher how he loved Angie?” I asked, picking at the label to my beer bottle. I didn’t even like beer that much—that was how much I’d had to drink.

“What?” Rory said.

“I mean … everyone says how much he loved her. Maybe if someone told him why they thought that … like … what specifically did he do to make you think he loved her? Then he might remember.”

I had no idea alcohol could spark a self-destructive case of jealousy. Yet there I was … intoxicated and jealous.

Rory glanced over at Rose. “He sent her flowers.”

Rose nodded. “They were cuddly …” She laughed, buzzed like the rest of us. “Is cuddly a word?” Rose laughed more.

“He took her to lunch a lot,” Rory added.

“Sometimes you took her for rides on your motorcycle.” Rose shifted her attention to Fisher.

I glanced over at him.

He nursed his beer, gaze on the fire as if he wasn’t hearing any of the conversation.

“The four of us spent so many nights in the screened-in porch just talking about life. Fisher said he wanted two kids. Angie wanted four. They compromised on three.” Rory grinned at Fisher.

Still … he showed no response other than to narrow his eyes a bit as if he was trying to make sense of what they were saying about him.

Did it still feel like someone else’s life? A biography that wasn’t his?

“And after Angie’s mom died, Fisher just … did everything. He helped take care of her mom’s property. He practically planned the funeral. Moved Angie into his house. Cooked for her for … weeks while she grieved her mom. I wish you could remember, Fisher. I really do.” Rory frowned.

Fisher stood. “I’m going to bed.” He didn’t look at me or anyone as he tossed his bottle into a bin in the back of his truck before wandering into the woods to pee.

Rose shook her head. “I don’t think we jogged his memory. I think he’s miserable.”

Rory stood and stretched. “Miserable? That’s a strong word.”

“It’s not. It’s the right word, trust me.” Rose started to collapse the chairs.

I helped her load them into the truck.

“You two still going to play mancala?” Rory handed me the game. “It’s late.” She laughed. “And we’ve all had too much to drink. But whatever …” She hugged me. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“It’s been a good day. Love you, birthday girl.” Rose hugged me and kissed my cheek. Then she whispered in my ear, “He’s not in a good mood. Let him be tonight.”

I didn’t say anything. I just gave a single nod to let her know I heard her.

After they found a spot to pee and retired to their tent, I planted my ass on the ground by the fire. When Fisher returned, he sat next to me, both of us with our knees bent and our arms resting on them.

“If it’s January …” I whispered. “Then we wait for January. I can’t …” I shook my head slowly. “Do this …”

I couldn’t sneak around with another woman’s fiancé any longer. If the alcohol imparted a sense of jealousy, then sobering up imparted a sense of regret.

“I know,” he whispered back. “I’m going to fix this.”

“Fix this?” I had trouble keeping my voice lowered. “How are you going to do that?”

“Do you trust me?”

I grunted a laugh. How many times had he questioned my trust in him? And where had it gotten me?

“I told you. I trust you. I just don’t trust your—”

“Yeah, yeah … my memory. Fuck my memory.” He stood. “Come on.” He held out his hand.

I took it. “I can’t do anything with you.” My inflamed conscience showed up to be the party pooper at my birthday party.

“We can play mancala.”

My head canted as I eyed him.

“For real. Mancala.” He tugged my hand.

We sat across from each other in his tent and played mancala for almost two hours, and it was fun. Everything with Fisher was fun and happy. He was bliss. And I couldn’t imagine my life without bliss.

“I’m going to …” I motioned toward the tent door. “Go to bed now.”

“You’ll be cold.”

“I know.”

“You could sleep with me.” He set the game aside.

“I said I’m not—”

“Sleep. Just sleep.”

“What about Rory and—”

“I’ll kick you out before they wake in the morning.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Can’t control yourself?”

“Full. Of. Yourself.”

His grin faded, gaze averting to the space between us. Confusion replaced all amusement. “Full of yourself,” he whispered before lifting his gaze to meet mine. “You’ve said that before. At my office. You …” He shook his head. “You were mad at me. Do you remember?”