"Not yet, but I will before this summer is over," I said, laughing back. He grinned at me, and my heart skipped at least three beats in a row. This was the first time I'd seen him looking genuinely carefree and happy, the small lines between his eyes completely smoothed out. When I realized I was simply standing there staring at him, I turned back, looking down to the water again. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Holden walk to the edge of the water. I looked over to see him rolling up his still-wet jeans. He waded in next to me.
For the next fifteen minutes, we tried in vain to grab a trout, both doing ridiculous-looking little hops as fish darted by. Once I almost face-planted in the water, and Holden grabbed me as we both laughed, his arms staying around me for a beat too long as my breath caught and our eyes met.
"Last try," he said. I nodded. We stood still and silent. Suddenly Holden's hands plunged into the water and when he brought them out, a fat trout was wiggling in his hands. I gasped, my mouth falling open. Holden rose slowly to his full height, letting out a small shout.
"Oh my God!" I exclaimed, grinning wildly at Holden, the flailing fish finally stilling in his hands. "I can't believe you just did that."
"I can honestly say I can't either," he said, shaking his head, a look of awed disbelief on his face.
"Beginner's luck," I mumbled, trying to sound displeased. But it came out breathy and impressed. I was impressed. "Or maybe you have experience and didn't tell me."
He laughed. "How long did you say you'd been doing this?" There was boasting amusement in his tone and I rolled my eyes.
Placing the fish in the plastic bag I'd laid down next to my fishing pole earlier, he chuckled and then returned to the stream to rinse his hands. I bent down next to him and washed my own, a wave of insecurity suddenly coming over me. We had just gone fishing with our bare hands on what was a sort of date. He'd participated, but he must have thought I was some sort of heathen or cave girl—or foolish little kid. That's it, this was him re-living his childhood with me. Ugh. I was sure those girls I'd seen dancing on the deck would never do something like this. They'd probably think it was gross. When I came back to the log he had already returned to, I shrugged self-consciously. "Too long. Obviously I have far too much time on my hands." I attempted a self-deprecating laugh, but it sounded sort of strange and choked.
"Hey, don't be mad because I'm naturally better at it than you."
I whipped my head toward him and saw that he was teasing me. He winked, looking so happy that I couldn't help but to laugh again, the self-consciousness that had come over me, melting away. I shook my head. Holden leaned forward and scratched his ankle and I noticed his back. I bent forward and touched his skin gingerly and he sat up quickly, his eyes meeting mine.
"You have so many scars," I said.
He smiled a tight smile. "My job isn't easy on my body. I've been injured more times than I can count."
"Your job . . . " I sat back down next to him, frowning slightly, wondering what in the world that could be. He nodded his head to the ground at my feet.
"What are you reading?" he asked, obviously changing the subject.
Glancing in the direction he was looking, I saw the edge of the book of poems peeking out of my backpack. I shrugged. "Oh, nothing," I said, using my foot to push my bag closed.
"Nothing? That looked like a book to me. What? Is it a tawdry romance novel or something?"
I laughed. "No. Just . . . a book of poems."
"You like poetry?"
I could feel the heat of his gaze on the side of my face and felt the color moving up my neck to my cheeks. Something about him knowing about my love of poetry felt very personal. "Yes," I said softly. "I do."
"Can I see?"
I hesitated briefly, but couldn't think of a good reason to tell him no. Plucking the book from my backpack, I held it in his direction without looking at him. He took it from my hand and was silent for a moment. "Romantic poetry." I heard him flip through it and then stop as he read to himself. My curiosity too great, I couldn't help but look over and see which poem he'd stopped on.
"She walks in beauty, like the night," he read, "of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright." He looked up and caught my eye. "Lord Byron." He paused. "I never knew that this one's about you," he said softly. I felt my blush deepen and looked down at my own hands.
"It's written about Mrs. John Wilmot, Byron's cousin by marriage. She was in mourning when he met her."
He hummed. "Maybe for Byron it was about her, but for me, it's about you." I brought my gaze to his and for some reason I wanted to weep. How often had I sat alone reading that poem and dreaming of someday being admired that way? "Lily of the Night," he said gently. "I knew it was the perfect way to describe you." My heart bursting with joy, I could only smile. He handed the book back, and I replaced it in my backpack.
"You knew it was Byron," I said. "Do you like poetry, too?
"I like literature," he said, a confused look crossing his face, his brow furrowing. He brought his hand up to his head and massaged his temples as if he was grasping on to a memory and it hurt. "Yes . . ." he said, bringing his hand down and smiling at me. "I haven't talked to anyone about that in a long time."
I nodded, feeling pleased that he'd shared something personal with me.