They drove three hours north.
Stayed in a cheap motel called the Pine Rest.
Fished all weekend.
Complained about the mosquitoes.
And returned Sunday evening carrying a cooler full of fish.
Mark always brought me a jar of wild blueberry jam from a roadside farm stand.
I’d once mentioned that I loved it.
He remembered every year.
But this time, he came home without any jam.
He arrived Sunday evening at seven-thirty.
Normally, he’d wrap both arms around me, kiss me properly, and immediately begin describing everything Ray had done wrong.
Instead, he gave me a quick, awkward hug.
Then he carried his duffel bag upstairs.
“How was the trip?” I called.
“Fine. I’m exhausted. Going to shower.”
“Did Ray fall out of the boat again?”
There was a pause.
“Twice.”
Usually, Mark would have laughed so hard while describing it that he’d struggle to finish the story.
