Chapter 180: Isla

Isla

The fishing gear was in the cabin closet, which honestly should’ve tipped us off. You know the kind, stuff someone bought thinking they'd fish all the time, then realized that intention wasn't the same as actually knowing how to do it. Four poles, a tackle box with practically untouched compartments, and a laminated instruction card curled at the edges from years of neglect.

Marco stumbled onto it around two in the afternoon and declared fishing was a brilliant plan. He sounded exactly like a guy who had never fished a day in his life. Enrico didn't say a word, which I was starting to recognize as its own kind of statement.

Twenty minutes later, we found ourselves lined up on the dock. I held my pole and watched Enrico fuss with his, checking the line, tweaking the reel, all these careful adjustments made to look casual. He seemed to be thinking very hard about how he might appear as someone guided by pure instinct.

"You've done this before," I said.

He barely hesitated. "Obviously."

"How many times?"

He gave me a pause. "The process is universal."

I just stared at him. He stared at the lake.

"Enrico?"

"The principle’s simple, you cast the line, the fish bites."

"That’s it?"

"That's the core."

I pressed my lips together, skeptical.

By my side, Marco gripped his pole upright, like he was claiming new territory. "Do you aim it at the water?" he asked. And honestly, I love this about my brother, the genuine curiosity, no pretending to know anything.

Sofia, down at the end of the dock, finally spoke up. She’d been quiet, pole angled just right, line already in the water, eyes locked on a patch of the lake with her usual focus. "Yes," she said.

"At what angle?"

"Depends what you're after. Keep it low. You aren't fishing for birds," she said, still not looking up.

Marco fiddled with his grip. "Like this?"

"Better."

I watched him listen to her, soaking up every instruction with that same focus he used for briefings, a man who’d decided Sofia was worth listening to and just started. No ego, just attention.

Enrico kept staring intensely at the water.

"Cast the line," I said, trying to speed him along.

"I'm checking the conditions."

"It's a lake," I told him.

He shot me a look. I gave it right back. He cast his line, pretty much where he meant, proving only that basic physics was on our side.

"Good depth," he said, as if he meant to do that.

"Mm."

Then, not much happened. Apparently that's normal for fishing. The lake stretched out flat and grey, with cold, pine-scented air and that deep November stillness. Marco lobbed four more questions. Enrico confidently answered two. Sofia gently corrected both, so subtly Marco didn't notice, but Enrico definitely did.

I watched Enrico realize he'd been wrong and honestly, found it adorable.

Then Sofia’s line twitched. Nothing dramatic, just a slight change, a tension in her hands. She adjusted her grip, waited, reeled in steady and smooth. Like she’d done this a hundred times.

She pulled up a fish.

A real, undeniable fish.

We just stared at it.

Enrico let out a noise, not quite a word, just a short, startled sound he'd probably never make again. His pole clattered to the dock, totally out of character.

"You dropped your pole," I said.

"I set it down," he replied, clinging to his dignity.

"Yeah, because your hands were empty," I said.

Marco started out controlled, a little laugh, but it quickly got away from him. I turned, and he was just lost in it, laughing with his whole face. I hadn’t seen him like that in years. Maybe longer.

Sofia looked at the fish, then at us, back to the fish again. She was clearly pleased with herself, and she had every right to be.

"You grew up near water," I said.

"Lake Michigan," Sofia told us. "My grandfather took me every weekend until I turned sixteen." She lowered the fish right back in and let it go. "Your grandfather must've handed you a dock and a laminated instruction card."

"We didn’t know we’d be fishing today," Enrico said, still trying for some composure.

"Neither did I," she said, and grinned. "And yet."

Marco kept laughing. I squeezed his arm, and he looked at me, eyes wet, suddenly remembering that happiness was something you actually felt, not just an idea.

"Sofia caught a fish," he said, like he needed someone to record it.

"I was here," I said.

"She just…”He gestured at the empty spot. "She was quiet, and then bam…fish."

"That’s the trick," Sofia said.

"Nobody told us," Marco replied.

"I tried," she laughed. She gave him her soft smile, the one I was starting to learn she used when Marco was simply being himself. "You weren’t listening."

"I listened to the wrong person," he admitted, glancing at Enrico, and they both let it lie.

Later after dinner, Sofia nudged Marco to take her out to the dock at night. Perfect cue, so smooth he probably thought it was his idea. They grabbed their wine and slipped outside.

I stood at the kitchen window, hands wet from dishes, watching them settle into the darkness, backdropped by the lake's broken moonlit reflections.

Enrico showed up beside me, dish towel in hand, like he always did. He never needed an invitation, just saw a job and joined in.

We watched together.

"He's going to fall in love with her," Enrico said.

I saw Marco say something; Sofia turned to him fully, giving her whole attention.

"He already is," I replied. "He just hasn’t told himself yet."

Enrico looked at me. "How do you always know what's coming?"

"I pay attention," I told him, handing him a glass. "You could try it."

"I pay attention to you," he said.

"That's different."

"Is it?"

I looked at him. Saw that steady, warm light on his face, the same attention he’d given me back in Boston, back when the world was falling apart, and he'd said my name like it actually mattered.

"No," I said quietly. "It’s not."

Outside, Marco laughed at something Sofia said. It drifted in through the glass, soft, distant, happy.

Enrico slipped his hand over mine, warm and sure.

The lake just held its light and kept those moments for us.

I wanted a soft life like this with this man.