Nineteen. Girl

NINETEEN

Girl

Maren

Lorelai: Well, well, well, how the turntables have turned.

Maren: Oh please.

Shelby: BAHAHAHAHA

Lorelai: I'm just saying someone was feeling pretty sure of herself back in Nashville when I was going through my own crisis. All "love makes people idiots" and HERE WE ARE.

Maren: That doesn't sound like me.

Maren: *Mariah Carey I don't know her gif*

Shelby: You know you can just use the gif right?

Maren: Says the person who needed to be taught how to social media.

Maren: And yes, I do know that but the cell reception is spotty here and gifs take for the fuck ever to load.

Lorelai: So anyway, he asked you to stay.

Maren: He asked me to stay.

Shelby: And not just for the kids either. He asked you to stay with HIM, specifically.

Maren: Yeah.

Lorelai: How are you feeling about this? Last we talked you were ready to hit the road.

Maren: Against my better judgment, I feel okay about it.

Shelby: What does that mean?

Maren: …

Maren: It's… just that I talked to my brother and he kind of warned me off Joe. Again. He said some things, brotherly things, that weren't wrong but also not completely right about Joe being this divorced, single dad and me being… me.

Shelby: Explain what "you being you" means.

Lorelai: FUCKING LIAM

Maren: Ha. Right. Fucking Liam. He just reminded me that I am basically unemployed and just broke up with my first serious boyfriend and I'm almost 34 and just like, idk. Floating along. He thinks Joe needs someone better.

Shelby: He said what????

Lorelai: I'm sorry, but WHAT. THE. FUCK. There is no one on earth better than you.

Maren: Shelby—it was implied. The subtext being "he needs someone, opposite of you."

Maren: Lorelai—you're sweet.

Shelby: So that's why you were all weird before we left.

Maren: Mostly, yeah.

Lorelai: Okay, but he asked you to stay, so…

Maren: Oh, I also gave him a blowjob. So whoops.

Lorelai: !! Before or after he asked you to stay?

Maren: Before he asked me to stay, after Liam warned me off, and after he sang Bon Jovi to me.

Shelby: THATTA GIRL

Lorelai: Can I just say, I love that Bon Jovi is your kink. It's so surprising but also somehow not?

Maren: Is it Bon Jovi or Joe singing Bon Jovi? Either way, he brought me to my knees, literally.

Lorelai: Presumably with your staying, sex is on the table…

Shelby: On the counter, in the bed, in the boat… oh! On the bar!

Maren: Wow, that second trimester really hits different, doesn't it?

Lorelai: You do know you can't get pregnant again, right? You have to wait until this one is born.

Shelby: Ha ha.

Shelby: If someone could get a pregnant woman pregnant again, it would be my husband and his tree-trunk thighs.

Maren: So if we're keeping track: he got me off and then I got him off and now I've said I will stay through the holidays for no good reason except because he asked and I am helpless against his charms.

Maren: And perhaps more concerning, I am also helpless against his children's charms.

Shelby: I don't blame you. Anders is his dad in miniature and practically worships the ground you walk on. Lucy has everyone wrapped around her finger and I mean that in a good way. She's tough, but she's worth it.

Maren: *sigh* Exactly.

Lorelai: Before talking to Liam, did any of this concern you?

Shelby: Oooh. Good question.

Maren: I guess not, no. Things have been happening very organically. Like, I didn't even really notice how close we'd gotten until Shelby and Cameron came up for their visit.

Lorelai: Then I think you tuck Liam's warning away and see where this is going. You're an adult and so is Joe. If you or Joe have reservations, then you can talk it out.

Shelby: Agreed. And for the record, I saw no red flags.

Lorelai: Oop, sorry, babe. I need to go. Huck just enacted the holy trifecta: glasses, wine, and Willie Nelson.

Shelby: Don't do anything we wouldn't do!

Maren: That list is getting shorter by the trimester!

The weeks after Joe asks me to stay pass quietly, sweetly. Joe and I get to know each other better every day, and everything I learn makes me a little wilder for him. He's thoughtful, intentional, orderly (nearly to the point of obsession), and surprisingly terrible at anything remotely handy. The man could run twenty miles in the hot desert sun with a hundred-pound pack on his back, but when it comes to wiring an electrical outlet, he's hopeless.

I like it. It makes him seem more human. Since I was a kid, chasing after him and my brothers, I always put him on a pedestal. The great Josiah Cole: handsome, athletic, brilliant, and popular. He might still be all of those things, but I'm the one who plumbed the bathroom in my apartment. Correctly. The first time. While he stood over my shoulder and handed me my tools.

I've never felt needed, and it turns out, I really enjoy being depended on. It suits me down to my bones. My entire life I've been on the receiving end, and I don't even think I meant for it to be that way. More like, people took one look at me and my wall of sashes and glittery crowns, and just… did things for me. It may have been flattering initially, but over the last few years it's worn thin. It's blatantly obvious people aren't doing it out of the kindness of their hearts, but rather because they think I'm not capable—that they've never believed I was capable.

Case in point: Shane. My old bosses at the parks. My advisor in college who talked me out of grad school. My parents. My brothers.

But Fost never treated me that way.

And Joe has never treated me that way, either. Perhaps he would have if he had even an ounce of energy to spare outside of his kids, but whatever the reason, I'm grateful. It's given me the opportunity to discover my own potential. My pop-up fishing guide business is thriving, the apartment and bait shop look practically unrecognizable from Fost's days (and not at all in violation of health codes), and I can pour beer from the tap with minimal foam.

Everything has been awesome, besides one teeny-tiny little hiccup. Joe and I haven't so much as kissed since that (highly enjoyable) hallway BJ. And honestly, was that even a kiss? Technically, I suppose. It's been so long, I don't recall. Clearly this is something that needs to be rectified, but one, his kids are always right there.

And two. His kids are always right there .

We could probably ask his parents to take Anders and Lucy for the night, but that would require us to admit to them that we're something to each other, and also that we want to spend the night together. And telling his parents would be the same as telling my parents, and I don't care how old I get, I'm not sure I can do that. Some people have that kind of relationship with their moms. I'm envious of that elusive Gilmore Girls closeness. As far as my mother knows, I'm still a virgin. As far as my father knows, I don't shave my legs.

You can see the conundrum.

Today is Saturday, and it's another warm one. El Ni?o, maybe. Or climate change. Whatever the circumstance that's gifted us with a sunny, nearly sixty-degree day in November, I'll take it. Anders still hasn't found his musky and Lucy needed to get out of the house. Or rather, we all needed to get out of the house because Lucy needed anything but what we were giving her.

So we bundled up and jumped in Simon Cole's old glittery Lund fishing boat for the afternoon.

It's also worth noting Joe's not much of a fisherman. To be fair, I'm one of the best around, but still. Another thing he's not brilliant at that just makes me like him more.

Lucy stopped fishing thirty minutes ago and is busy organizing all the plastics in my tackle box by color. I'm going to have to redo everything later tonight, but it's worth the sacrifice to grant Anders even a few more minutes of fishing.

The kid's been getting nibbles on his line. We're slowly drifting along the shoreline, and I know this is the spot to make it happen. No one else has a line in the water. I had Joe reel in a while ago, even though, let's face it, he wasn't gonna catch anything. But still, if on the off chance he did, it would kill Anders to have his dad find a musky before him, especially since his dad isn't the one who has been obsessively seeking a fish for the last three months solid. I'm concentrating on keeping us near the shore and ready to jump with a net.

"Pull up," I tell Anders when we start to edge around another bog. "I'm gonna motor us back around. How's your bucktail? Want to swap out lures?"

Anders makes a face, reeling in, the gloss of his navy-blue manicure flashing in the sun. It matches mine and coordinates with our June-bug-colored lures, specially designed by his little sister. Obviously, matching your manicure with your lures isn't a requirement to be a successful fisher-person, but we think it adds a little something extra. "I don't know," he eventually says. "What do you think?"

I shake my head. "My gut is saying keep it. It's a good one. The colors are perfect and if you've already gotten some hits…"

"This is our last day, though…" Anders fidgets, roughly rubbing at his nose with the palm of his hand the way he does when he's anxious. Poor kid is losing hope.

"This season," I finish. "Last day this season. You have your entire life ahead of you. I didn't catch my first musky until my thirteenth birthday! And you're already a way better fisherman than me."

"I didn't catch one until I was an old married man, kiddo," Joe offers, passing Lucy more plastics. I wonder where he even found those? But then I see my backup tackle box is open next to him. He gives me an apologetic half grin, half wince.

Hearing my sigh, Anders raises his gaze to meet mine and he rolls his eyes lightly. "That's because you suck at fishing, Dad. Sorry, but it's the truth."

That has me hiding my snicker in my shoulder.

"Don't say ‘suck,' kid," Joe chides good-naturedly. "Though you may have a point."

I take the boat in a slow, wide turn, pulling us parallel to the shore again. "Drop in as soon as we pass that point, Anders."

The little guy takes a deep breath, gripping his reel. "Okay."

I turn off the motor, content to drift. The breeze is enough to carry us and anyway, I'm crossing everything I have that this is the pass that does the trick. First, I check on my young partner, but there's nothing to comment on. His form is perfect. All that's missing is the fish on the line. Then I turn my attention to his dad. His form is also perfect, but in a completely different way. He's leaning back in his seat, his long legs crossed at the ankle over the edge of the boat, content to watch his kids. There's this small almost-smile on his lips that I've secretly coined his "Anders and Luce smile" because it's the one he wears during these unguarded moments with his kids. The ones in between the rushing around, the discipline, the providing, the serving.

A garbled shriek pulls me out of my daydreaming and I'm on my feet and at Anders's side in half a heartbeat.

"I got something!"

His pole is bowing and bobbing. "Yeah you do!" I don't have to tell him to yank up and set the hook. He's already there and reeling in as fast as his small hands can manage. I reach for the net, watching the line. "Don't let it go slack," I remind him, gently prodding the pole up. "Steady. You're doing amazing." I see a glint of silver in the water and Joe gives a mighty whoop, his feet smacking the boat as he surges to stand.

"Lucy, come look!" Joe shouts. "Anders has a big fish on the line!"

On the other side of Anders, I see Joe, juggling his phone in one hand and Lucy on his hip in the other. I'm worried he's gonna drop his phone in the water, but I suspect he wouldn't care one bit.

After probably the longest two minutes of his entire life, Anders babies the line close enough to the boat to see what he's caught, and it's a doozy of a musky. On the smaller side, but perfect for a first effort.

Definitely bigger than anything his dad ever caught, I'm sure.

"Holy moly, kid!" I shout while dipping in the net and expertly scooping the fish, bait and all. "You did it!"

"I did it!" he screeches, jumping up and down, finally letting loose and looking exactly like the little boy he is. I press my lips together, holding in my emotion, and lay the net on the bottom of the boat. I instruct Anders on how to unhook the fish and the best way to carefully hold it and keep it from further harm. Joe snaps a hundred pictures of Anders with the fish, and then Anders and Lucy. Anders holds his fish, and Lucy, her face a study in stoicism, holds out her hand-painted lure. I'm so proud of them both, I could burst. Instead, I take Joe's phone so he can get a photo with all three of them. After, he reaches out a hand.

"Your turn."

"I want one with you, Maren! So we can frame it on the wall at the lodge," Anders says, his eyes pleading. As if I could ever tell him no.

To anything.

"Yes, please! My fishing partner and protégé!" I drop to a squat next to him and wrap my arm around his shoulders and beam. I'm not sure whose smile is bigger.

We quickly release the musky, and it wastes zero time darting away.

"I'll see you next year," Anders vows solemnly and I laugh, getting to my feet. I hold out my hand for a high five but Anders dives in for a hug.

"Thanks, Maren," he says into my waist, and I swallow back a fresh sting of tears. I'm not usually this emotional. Definitely not while I'm fishing. It's Anders. It's gotta be. This kid makes my heart squeeze. Looking up, I meet Joe's eyes and that's all it takes for my tears to spill over.

He doesn't laugh at me. He doesn't even say a word. He just nods in a way that says, I know. It's a lot.

Eventually Anders lets go and the moment is over. I sit in the back of the boat with the kids while Joe drives us back to the resort and his parents' dock. We carry everything straight to the lodge so Anders can share his catch with his grandparents. They ring a giant bell over the bar and write his name on the board, even though his musky is a good deal smaller than the rest of the big ones caught over the course of the season. Joe jumps in the kitchen to make a couple of celebratory pizzas and Donna makes the kids Shirley Temples from the bar with extra cherries. The lodge empties out early, so I take the liberty of changing out the college football game on the TV for some big-screen cartoons. I grab a spot at a table and Lucy climbs in my lap, slumping back against my chest, happily slurping her pink drink and getting more than a little bit of it down both of our fronts. Her small body is warm and wiggly, and she smells like sugar and sunscreen. She offers me her straw, jabbing it in my face. Anders laughs at the way I jerk away, startled.

I grin. "I guess I zoned out." I gently push the cup back toward Lucy's lap. "No, thank you, baby."

Anders watches us and sips from his own drink. Eventually he says, "I'm surprised she lets you call her that. She always yells at Dad saying, ‘I'm not a baby!'"

"She does?" I look at Lucy and tap her shoulder to get her attention. "Is it okay if I call you ‘baby,' Lucy? Do you want me to stop?"

She shakes her head. "I'm your baby."

Eyes wide, I look to Anders for help, but he shrugs.

I don't know what to say. It's on the tip of my tongue to straighten her out, but that feels needlessly cruel, and I'm not sure how much relationship nuance Lucy is capable of understanding. Besides, I started it. I called her "baby" because that's what rolled off my tongue.

Oh Lord. I need to talk to Joe about this.

"Okay, then," I finally whisper, squeezing her little body to mine for a brief second and then letting her go and sighing as I lean back into the rest of the seat.