Prologue
LANEY
AGE TEN
"Aw, man. Dad, come on. Do we really have to take her?" my neighbor London complains as I stand beside his dad's pickup truck.
"Yes, London, she's going. The more the merrier," Mr. Hale says as he loads the fishing gear into the back of the truck bed.
"But you said it was just going to be me and you, like old times," he whines.
"Well, the plan has changed," he says with a hint of annoyance at his son's nagging, and I cringe.
I didn't ask to play the third wheel on their fishing trip. We might be neighbors, but London and I are not friends, and I didn't think my mother and Mr. Hale were either, but somewhere between her mowing the lawn this morning and a call from the hospital to pick up a shift, I got shafted and Mr. Hale was tasked with babysitting me. I told my mother I didn't need a babysitter. I begged her to give me a chance, but she refused. Now, here I am, the unwanted spare on a father-son day. I've dreamed about the day London Hale would look up and notice me, but it never looked or sounded like this in my dreams.
"Then can I bring Fisher? I'm sure his mom will say yes if I call him up," London pleads.
His dad sighs before he concedes. "Fine, run inside and call Fisher. Make sure he knows we are leaving now, then bring me my cell phone when you're done. I left it on my nightstand."
"Yes!" London hisses excitedly before running past so fast it creates a slight breeze in the stifling Texas summer heat.
"Laney," Mr. Hale calls from the back of the truck.
I shove my hands in the back pockets of my jean shorts and walk toward the tailgate. "Did you change your mind?" I ask.
His kind eyes find mine. "Don't tell me you don't want to go either." I shrug, not wanting to say no and add to the headache my presence has already caused. "Don't worry about London." His eyes flash up to the house. "He'll come around." I don't say anything, my anxiety getting the best of me. He closes the cooler. "Do you have a hat?"
"I do, inside."
He nods toward my house. "Go grab it. The sun reflecting off the water gives you a double dose of its intensity. I don't need you getting sunburned on my watch."
"Sure," I say before running back into my house, grateful for the small reprieve of doing something other than standing beside his truck, looking pathetic. I take an extra second to put on sunscreen when I grab my hat, not wanting to end the afternoon looking like a crab. Those extra seconds spent lathering my skin grant me a few glorious moments in the comfort of the air conditioner to cool my heated flesh. Still, the relief is short-lived, because the second I step out my front door, I'm thrown right back on the coals as I walk across my front yard, and the screen door to the Hale house swings open.
London sulks out of his house, his steps heavy on the wooden porch. "Fisher is sick," he mopes as he kicks a pebble. "I don't want to go anymore. Let's just stay home. I'd rather do that than take a girl."
Mr. Hale closes the tailgate as London trudges down the front steps. "Laney, what do you say we put this to rest?" Mr. Hale says, stepping between the truck and me. "Do you want to go fishing?"
I dig my nails into my palms. I want to say no, but he just finished packing a cooler and loading up the back of the truck, and saying no after he went through all that hassle feels rude, so instead, I give him another honest answer.
"I've never been fishing."
His eyebrows rise in surprise before he clasps his hands together. "Then that settles it. We're going fishing."
"She's never even been fishing?" London groans as his dad rounds the truck to the driver's side, leaving me in plain sight of his son's scornful study. London Hale notices me for the first time since I moved in, but the offense in his glare as he leans, arms crossed, against the truck makes me wish he didn't. I'd rather be invisible than on the receiving end of his annoyance. When his dark eyes finally connect with mine, they lock and narrow slightly before a scowl takes over his face. He disappointedly shakes his head before pulling open the front door of the truck. Climbing up, he mutters, "This is the worst."
Adjusting my baseball cap to hide my discomfort, I get in the backseat and mentally echo London's sentiments. It's the worst day ever.
"No,no, no. Don't take the bait. Drop it," I whisper-yell at the fish as though it were a dog that would release its bone.
We've been fishing at the lake for almost an hour now, and no one has caught anything. The last thing I want to do is catch the first fish. I can already see the fit London will throw if I catch the first fish on a pole that's not mine, with bait I refused to touch, on a line I didn't cast. I set the pole down, walk to the water's edge, and squat to see if I can see a fish.
"What are you doing?" London startles me, and I shoot up.
"Nothing." I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "I was just seeing how cold the water is."
His brow furrows as he pulls up the hem of his black t-shirt towipe the sweat off his brow. "Are you sure that's what you were doing?"
I roll my lips and rock back on my heels. "Mm-hmm."
