Boys, Bears, and a Serious Pair of Hiking Boots(26)
Author: Abby McDonald

“You need to talk to him, find out what he’s been saying.”

“I know.” I sigh. “I just figured it would be best if I cooled down first. Violence is not the answer — isn’t that what they’re always telling us?”

Talking to Ethan may be my plan, but he seems to have a different idea. I call twice that night, and again the next morning, but I just can’t reach him. His mom, on the other hand, sounds delighted to “finally” speak to me.

“I’ll let him know you called!” she coos. “I don’t know where he’s at right now, but I know he’ll be sorry to have missed you.”

“Umm, thanks,” I answer slowly, leaving my cell number. “If he could just call . . .”

“Sure, sweetie. See you soon!”

“Did you and lover boy have a fight?” Fiona appears behind me in the hall, making me jump.

“Don’t sneak around like that!” I exclaim, hanging up. “And no. Where did you hear that, anyway?”

“Come on.” She smirks. “You guys were all over each other the other day.”

“Were not!”

“I nearly barfed with all that flirting in the truck. And then the movie: ‘Oh Ethan, let’s see the action one,’” she mimics in a high voice. “‘No, Jenna, not if you want to see the comedy.’ Ugh.” She shudders.

“So that’s it — I hang out with a boy for what, a few hours, and then everyone acts like we’re together?”

She gives me a smug grin. “If you wanted to get away with being a slut, you shouldn’t have come to such a small town.”

I storm away. It would be one thing if I had been flirting — if I’d even had a crush on Ethan for them to pick up on — or if I’d spent more than one lousy afternoon alone with him, but God! At this rate, we’ll be married by next week!

“Jenna?” Adam catches me as I barrel out the front door. He’s working on the porch railing, and it seems like I never see him without that toolbox by his side. “Everything OK?”

“It will be,” I snap, before catching myself. “Sorry, I’m just, kind of stressed.” I try to take a few deep breaths. Adam is looking at me with quiet concern.

“Can I help at all?” He puts down the sandpaper, as if he wants to talk.

I shake my head, already backing down the porch steps. “Thanks, but I’m fine. I just need to talk to Ethan, that’s all.”

“Ethan, eh?” He scratches his beard. “I think he’s out by Barlson’s Creek.”

I stop. “You mean he’s not in town?”

He nods. “I ran into him about an hour ago — said he was going to get away and do some fishing. There are shallows about five miles out of town where the boys usually go; I’d say that was your best bet.”

I pause. The chance to get Ethan alone is too good to pass up. “Is it easy to find?”

Adam chuckles. “Let me draw you a map.”

Armed with scribbled directions, the truck, and a pair of waders, I find Ethan up above town where the river bends away from the road. Curving between boulders and driftwood, the water runs in a broad, shallow flow. I scramble down the banks and call across to where he’s standing, knee-deep in the water.

“Hey!”

Ethan looks over and almost drops his fishing line. “Jenna? What are you doing here?”

“Well, I heard you were up here, so I thought I’d come learn something.” I make sure to keep my tone even, hiding all traces of hurt and confusion.

“Uh, great.” Ethan seems taken aback, but he begins wading toward the shore.

I wait, wondering about my next move. I spent the drive up imagining what it would be like to push his lying ass over into the ice-cold river, but now I’m not so sure. Ethan seems so nice, maybe he has a reason for saying the stuff he did.

Or maybe he’s just an idiot.

He’s reached dry land now and is busily sorting through his stash of equipment, finding me a spare rod and line. “I’ve got a folding chair, too, if you want to borrow it.” He grins over at me, his face open and good-natured. “I’m guessing your legs hurt like hell after yesterday.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I study him, thrown. These aren’t the actions of a lying scumbag. If I just charge ahead and start accusing him . . .

In an instant, I decide: maybe instead of confronting him head-on, I should play by the rules from my mountain man manual. Jeremiah says nothing about the intricacies of teen mating rituals, but he does have a whole section on understanding your prey. To really get inside an animal’s head, you have to spend hours quietly observing it: tracking its routines, habits, behavior — everything.

Realizing that he’s waiting for me, I walk over and take the unfamiliar equipment.

“Fly-fishing, huh?” I survey the clear, rushing river. “Where do I start?”

Once Ethan’s shown me how to spool my line on the long rod and flick it out into the water, I set up beside him in the middle of the river. To my surprise, my anger soon drifts away. The water is rushing past me in a soothing flow, the sun warms my bare shoulders, and the tranquil calm of the breeze rustles at the overhanging branches. It’s like the ultimate Zen paradise. I can definitely see why Ethan is always so laid back.

“What was that?” Ethan looks over, after we’ve been standing in companiable silence for about twenty minutes.

“Hmmm?”

“You sighed.”

“I did? Oh, I was just relaxing. It’s so peaceful out here.” There’s not a single man-made sound anywhere — nothing but water, wind, and occasional birdsong. It’s as if we’re the only people in the whole valley.

He nods, shifting his weight a little and testing the pull on his line. Like me, he’s wearing thick rubber waders that reach halfway up his thighs, but he’s stripped off his T-shirt and has nothing but his tackle bag strung across his chest. “I like to get away from it all and just chill up here. There isn’t much to get away from in Stillwater, I know,” he adds, “but sometimes I need a break. From my brother, especially.”

Here’s my chance. “What’s Grady done?” I glance over, but Ethan just looks uncomfortable.

“Oh, nothing. Just guy stuff.”

I decide to probe a little more. “Yeah, he was acting kind of weird yesterday, saying these things . . .” I keep one eye on Ethan.