Intimacy

1

"Watch for snappers, little lady." Sara pitched her voice low and scrunched her face to mimic Uncle Petey's Minnesota twang. As if grumpy reptiles were the worst of her problems. The calamine lotion cracked, flaking off from the healing welts on her cheeks and rained down on her white tank top. Straight into her cleavage. Great, just great. Her pole and tackle box clattered on the deck as she flapped her shirt out, trying to scrub away the pinkish flakes clinging to her sweaty under-boobs.

She could be in Alaska right now! Swimming with walruses and running with wild moose, or something of the like. Not that she would know any cruise extra-curricular activities since she was stranded in the heartland, in as rustic a town as you could get, with Chickenpox, a month before her high school Senior year.

All because Sara never went to Laurie Englebert's 8th birthday party and missed out on a class-wide epidemic as a kid. It was just her and the creepy asthmatic with the fanny pack in the classroom for a solid week.

Who could've guessed her two week stint of babysitting for vacation spending money would doom her to Uncle Petey's cabin in Minnesota back country? Miles from anything notable, left with nothing better to do than fish and scratch while her parents and younger brother had the time of their lives. He still had dial- up internet.

This summer sucked.

Fuming, Sara gave the tackle box a kick, immediately regretting it since she wore flip flops. After hopping around, clutching her foot and nearly falling in the murky water, she slumped onto the deck to fiddle with bait and hooks. Her uncle refused to turn on the ancient AC unit in the living room. It was too hot to hang out inside the man's stuffy cabin, and after he'd showed her how, she found she actually liked fishing. Not that she would admit anything of the sort to her friends back home in upstate New York.

Out here it was peaceful and, more important, secluded. She could laze about in nothing but short shorts and a tank top, covered in calamine and fish guts with no one the wiser. It was the lone upswing to this disaster of a summer; no one had to see her in this condition.

Sara flicked her wrist, listening to the reel whiz as her line went out over the water and the soft plunk as it landed. Uncle Petey's cabin was situated on a bend of the river, the current slow and sluggish, but it often pulled her hook around a blind corner. Fine for her since the fish liked to hide in the shallow rocky pools on the other side of the spit of trees.

She skimmed her toes along the surface, waiting for the inevitable tug on the line. A few minutes passed. There was faint splashing downstream from her. Did she hear someone laughing?

Her line squealed as it caught, running hard and fast with whatever took her bait. She locked the reel, yanking hard as her catch fought back, bending her pole almost double. Holy crackers, it was a big one. It felt like one of those giant catfish her uncle teased her about, jokingly called them the F.O.U.S.'s (Fish of Unusual Size). She didn't think they existed, though the action on her pole made her wonder.

Sara hooked her knees up under the dock and gave the mightiest yank she could muster. It looked like the line was about to snap when a hoarse shout caused her to jump and fumble the pole. The tension went slack, dragging toward her. Puzzled, she reeled in her catch, watching a bright swatch of color peep at her beneath the muddy water.

"What the heck?" Was her epic catch really a plastic bag snagged on a sunken log? Wouldn't be the first time she--

Sara pulled a pair of swim trunks from the water. She held them up, admiring the Iron Man print pattern when an angry shout made her drop them on her feet with a wet splat. She saw the hair first, dripping but still stuck up in every direction. Even soaked, she could tell it was a shocking shade of dark red. Her eyes continued their downward progression, pausing at the blaze of anger in those lovely hazel eyes. Why so angry? Oh, oh my...