"When we go fishin' with my Daddy, we always listen to music." Finn holds his rod like a sword in front of him, the little hook dangling dangerously close to Luke's ass.

Wouldn't it be funny - maybe even hysterical - if it got caught and tore his pants? Or poked him right in one of his sarcastic cheeks?

Standing upright, Luke nudges the end of the pole in the opposite direction - shame - and adjusts his ball cap over his eyes, squinting in the sun.

"Well. You're fishin' with Uncle Luke today, bud. And Uncle Luke thinks it's better to fish without music."

"Why?"

I grin, observing their exchange and pushing my arms through the sleeves of my sweatshirt.

"Because fish like it quiet."

I peer over the side of the low bridge, raised just above a shallow bit of the ocean. The sand beneath us, on either side of the shore pushing in, is littered with other fishermen, and next to us, some scatter over the bridge.

Can the fish hear music from up here?

"Plus," Luke unloads a cooler and tackle box from the back of his truck. "You asked Miss Dylan to spend the day with you. It'd be rude not to talk to her, you know."

Finn plops down on the cooler, deliberating as Luke pulls two longer poles from the back.

Luke's deft fingers pull at a tangle in the line and Finn asks, "Rude?"

"Mhm." Luke grunts, handing me a fishing pole. "Hold, please." Then addressing his nephew, "Like when Granny tells you you aren't using your good manners."

"Oh." Finn's forehead puckers until he looks at me. "Sorry, Miss Dylan."

"That's okay." I look away as Luke puts live bait on our hooks, the squirmy, muddy worms seeming to wiggle in pain no matter how many times I've heard they don't feel a thing. "My Grams always reminds me to mind my manners, too."

Finn grins, raising his brows at me in an expression that seems too mature for his young face. One that says, can you believe the stuff we have to put up with, with those two?

A whirring noise buzzes past my ear and when I jump, I'm met with a smug, Luke Henson grin.

"Sure you remember how, Dyl?" He chuckles, reeling steadily with his right hand, his line landing an impressive several yards ahead.

"Of course I do." I bite my lip nervously, my fingers vaguely familiar with where they're supposed to go.

And maybe somewhere, deep down, buried with memories of Casey and the boat and colorful lures, I do remember how.

But I still pay incredibly close attention as Finn, ever so patient and amazingly sweet, gives me a thorough demonstration on casting.

"Hungry yet, bud?" Luke peers down at Finn, walking between us, each of his hands high above his head to hold one of Luke's and one of mine.

"Yup!" Finn does a little happy dance. "Hot dogs, hot dogs, hot dogs!"

I laugh. When you're little, small things are big things. A hot dog for lunch is special, a day fishing is an adventure, everything is always spectacular.

I miss that and Finn helps me to remember.

We managed a few hours of fishing before the sun broke through the clouds, beating down with too much intensity for our SPF and dry mouths.

The trip was successful, even - more-so for Finn and Luke than me. The guys caught mainly strippers, some larger than others, all with the same, slimy, silvery-grey scales. And every time, they tossed them back into the sea, only holding them long enough for a quick picture for Laura.

"Because they're alive and have friends and mommies and daddies, and maybe even babies, too." Finn explained. He got no argument from me.

On the random occasion that I did feel a tug on my line, it ended up being a large, soggy clump of seaweed. Naturally, Luke couldn't help snickering. But Finn also found it hilarious, and so I didn't mind quite so much.

After a water bottle from the cooler every now and again, our bellies are beginning to rumble.

"His favorite place is just a bit down the street. I think I've taken you before. Way back, obviously. The little shack-hut thing?" Luke glances at me from beneath long, dark lashes.

Catching my breath in my throat, I shrug nonchalantly, perfectly recalling the taste of the most delectable chili-dog I've ever had on my tastebuds.

"I'm not sure I remember." I say anyways.

"I think it was only once." Luke murmurs. The hint of disappointment in his voice doesn't bring me as much satisfaction as I thought it would.

Instead I feel bad. Sorry for being deliberately callous.

I shake the feeling away as Finn lets out an excited squeal. The shack, there's no other word for it, is in view, an uneven, hand painted sign promising foot long hot dogs and ice cold beverages hanging above the dull, red door.

"Why don't you go sit with Miss Dylan, at that table there?" Luke points to a bench just by the edge of the pier, overlooking the ocean.

"Okay!" Finn obliges, taking my hand and dragging me to our table before his uncle can ask what I want to eat.

The line is long and Finn and I have some time to chat. Easy enough, considering I'm with one of the greatest small-talkers ever.

"What's your favorite color, Miss Dylan?"

Finn walks over to the railing, sticking his arms through the beams, and reaches for the waves.

"Yellow, I think."

"Like bumblebees!"

"Just like bumblebees."

Finn smiles at me over his shoulder. "What's your favorite ice cream?"

"Vanilla. What about yours?" I lean forward, touching my fingers to his back as he leans farther through the planks of wood.

"Vanilla is boring. I like strawberry." Finn answers matter-of-factly. "Who's your best friend?"

Whoa. Maybe not such small talk after all.

How can I tell a toddler that I don't have friends? That my best friend, my very best one, died in an accident awhile ago?

That the rest sort of disappeared with him?

I finger his soft cheek, rosy from the sun or the harsh breeze off the water, atop the bridge.

I could tell him Grams. It wouldn't be a lie, but...

Chewing my bottom lip, I tap my chin a couple of times, pretending to be thinking hard.

Finn stares at me, blinking patiently, green eyes wide and innocent.

Finally, I let out a long sigh. "Well, Finn. I think that just might be you."

At this, he lets out a high-pitched giggle, wrapping his arms around my legs. His warmth spreads through me, the softness of his body comforting in the way a teddy-bear is to a child in the dark.

"My best friend is Uncle Luke." His chin presses into my thigh as he tilts his head back to meet my eyes. "But I'm not his best friend."

"Why do you say that?" I wonder, pushing curls from his forehead, damp with perspiration. "You seem like it to me."

Finn shrugs, arms still in a death grip around my legs.

"Because I think that's you."

The answer surprises me, so much that I can't respond right away.

By the time I put my thoughts together, think to ask why Finn would say such a thing, he's already caught sight of Luke walking towards us, a red tray in his hands, piled high with hotdog buns and potato chips.

Finn spam because he's just so 🥺
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