The Lost Fisherman (Fisherman #2)(74)

With a grunt, I sipped my coffee. “Yup. I’m making amazing progress. Here’s what I now know. Angie posts everything on Instagram. Fisher loved her. Maybe does again. And I have no clue how to love. I’m an expert in anti-love. I should move back to Michigan. Finish my master’s. And forget I ever met Fisher Mann.”

“Ouch.” Rose wrinkled her nose. “So much for clarity after a rough night.”

Resting my elbows on the table, I rubbed my tired eyes. “Isn’t life just a rocky road of mistakes? A journey to enlightenment or Heaven or wherever? I mean … what do we really know when we die? What did we really learn?”

“What’s the point?” Rory said.

“Exactly.” I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “And what is wrong with the world? Why do we have to spend so much time recording our lives and sharing them with the world? Granted, I didn’t get a cell phone until I was nearly a legal adult, and I do have social media accounts, but why does something that’s so time-consuming make us feel so terrible most of the time? And why do we do it? Why do we voluntarily subject ourselves to it? What a waste of life.”

Rory chuckled. “I spent five years in prison, so I agree with you. But let’s talk about the real issue. How much time did you spend on Angie’s Instagram account yesterday?”

I sighed, hanging my head. “All of it. Every single picture she’s ever posted and every single caption she posted with them is burned into my brain. It was the most suicidal thing I have ever done.” I took another sip of my coffee. “I’m not proud of it. And I deleted the app.” I retrieved my phone from my hoodie pocket and brought up the screen. “But then I downloaded the app again this morning. And I officially hate Fisher Mann and his fiancée Angie.” I showed them the post from late last night, after I’d already gone to bed. It was a photo of him sleeping on his stomach, arms next to his head, sheets so low on his back that it seemed unlikely if not impossible that he was wearing anything at all. Angie captioned it: My Whole World.

Rose and Rory blinked slowly at the phone screen, but Rose’s gaze drifted away from it first. She had already seen it. They had nothing to say. And I had no tears left to cry. I told Fisher I was in it for as long as I felt like I was actually in it.

Well, I was no longer in it.

“Reese …” Rory said softly as I pushed back in my chair and stood.

I shook my head. “It’s fine. I actually feel sorry for her. The only way she can feel like he loves her is if he hates me. And I think this weekend … he’s hated me.”





I think Elliott Trenton Davies decided to announce his impending arrival Sunday afternoon just so I could avoid dealing with my so-called life. Around four in the afternoon, I received the call from Holly with permission to “not rush” because she knew Elliott’s mom’s contractions were years apart. But she was a first-time mom who required some guidance in being patient. And Holly excelled at patience. Even though she knew the new mom would not be holding her baby anytime soon, Holly shared in her excitement and vowed to be with her every step of the way. That was code for Holly would sit in the corner of the room, reading a romance novel, while the mom and scared but eager dad worked through tiny contractions together. As long as the mom was still smiling, Holly knew no baby would be arriving soon.

So I took my time, taking a shower, eating dinner, and packing my bag with my own books, snacks, and lots of water.

“Hope it all goes well.” Rory smiled as she unloaded groceries.

I hiked my bag onto my shoulder and tucked my feet into my shoes. “Me too. I don’t know when I’ll see you. This could be a long labor.”

“Wouldn’t that be a blessing.”

I knew what she meant. And I felt it too. Fisher and Angie would be home later, and I needed to not be home. Not be available to him and his anger or pathetic excuses. Not put myself in the position to explode and say things that would make everything exponentially worse.

“Yes.” I scrounged a smile for her. “It really would be.” I shut the door behind me.

Elliott’s mom did, in fact, labor for almost twenty-four hours, during which time, I received one text from Fisher.

I’m home if you want to talk.





If I wanted to talk. Not “I’m home, we need to talk.”

I replied as soon as I had a quick chance.

I’m at a birth.





He didn’t reply.

It was almost seven o’clock Monday night before I made it home.

Rose and Rory were decorating the house for Christmas.

“Hey, sweetie. How’d it go?”

On a sigh, I smiled—a tiny one. “Good. A boy. Seven pounds, nine ounces. Mom cried. Dad cried.”

“Did you?” Rose asked.

I shrugged. “I might have got a little teary eyed because I just …” On another sigh, I frowned.

“You’re tired. Emotionally drained.” Rory said.

I nodded. “So drained. I’m going to crash. I’ll see you in a hundred years.”

“Love you.”

“You too,” I mumbled, dragging my feet and slumped body to bed.





The next morning, I woke a little before five and couldn’t get back to sleep. It also didn’t help that it sounded like someone was mowing our lawn. I peeked out the window. It had snowed overnight. A lot. And Fisher was snow blowing our drive and sidewalk.