Hermosa’s First Catch (and a Splash of Something Else)
It was the kind of morning where the sun winked flirtatiously through the clouds, birds gossiped in the trees, and Hermosa—red curls frizzed like a radio antenna—was already waist-deep in the lake, casting her line confidently into the wrong direction. Again.
“Huh?” she said, turning to her fishing partner.
Tiny Bestie, a four-foot powerhouse in camo waders and a backward bucket hat, sighed. “You’re fishing behind you again.”
She blinked. “Huh?”
He pointed to her line tangled in her own hair. “Your hair’s caught a bass.”
“Oh!” she said, untangling it while accidentally elbowing Tiny Bestie in the nose.
“Ow. Huh?”
They were a dynamic duo of nonsense. Hermosa had never caught a fish in her life. Not even close. She’d once reeled in a boot, a duck decoy, and, on one ambitious day, her own sandal. But she loved fishing. The calm. The splashes. The wildly exaggerated snack breaks. The yelling “huh?” every ten seconds.
“I think today’s the day, Tiny Bestie,” she said, squinting heroically at a bush.
“That’s not water, Hermosa.”
“Huh?”
Three hours later, Tiny Bestie had caught six trout, two perch, and one angry snapping turtle. Hermosa, meanwhile, had managed to catch a marshmallow she dropped from her pocket. It stuck to her ankle like a badge of disappointment.
Just when she was about to call it quits, her clumsiness struck gold.
She tripped over a slippery rock, did a dramatic spin worthy of a modern dance routine, flailed wildly, and hurled her entire fishing rod into the lake like an Olympic javelin. It made a beautiful arc—and then, miracle of miracles, the line snapped taut.
Something was on the hook.
Something big.
“Huh?!” she gasped.
Tiny Bestie screamed, “PULL IT, WOMAN!”
Hermosa yanked with the force of someone trying to win a tug-of-war with Poseidon. She slipped, landed butt-first on a mossy rock, and, with one last pull, sent a massive trout flying through the air like a majestic fishy missile.
It landed squarely in her lap.
Hermosa stared at it. It stared back.
She screamed.
Tiny Bestie screamed.
The fish flopped.
“MY FIRST FISH!” Hermosa howled in triumph, cradling the trout like it was her newborn child.
She sprinted into town like a warrior fresh from battle, hoisting the trout above her head. “EVERYONE! I—”
BAM.
She collided full speed with a fruit cart, sending oranges flying like confetti and her fish—her prized, lake-wrestled, flop-happy fish—directly into the face of the cart’s owner.
Mr. Papi.
He was modestly handsome, with the kind of stare that made people walk into poles. A single orange rolled to a stop beside his sandaled foot.
“Well, if it isn’t a red-haired goddess with questionable aim,” he said, plucking the fish off his face like it was a slapstick mustache. “Is this your way of flirting? Because if so, I’m hooked.”
Hermosa, cheeks flushed, snorted. “Huh? Oh—I mean, maybe if you weren’t standing there looking all citrusy and delicious, I wouldn’t have been distracted.”
His eyebrow arched. “You think I look delicious?”
“I think you look like someone who needs better fish protection.”
Their eyes locked.
Time slowed.
He was thinking: Who is this chaotic curly menace and why do I want to kiss her under a lemon tree while she yells ‘huh?’ into my mouth?
She was thinking: Why does this orange-slinging snack look like he ruins bed frames for a hobby?
Just as the air thickened with tension and light jazz began playing in the background (possibly just a guy with a saxophone at the bakery), a toddler on a scooter slammed into Hermosa’s shin and yelled, “YOU SMELL LIKE LAKE!”
The spell broke.
“Ow. Huh?” she muttered, hopping on one foot.
Mr. Papi chuckled and picked up her fish. As he handed it back to her, their fingers touched.
FLASH.
A thousand memories flooded them. Dim candlelit rooms. Silk sheets clinging to sweat-slicked skin. Her curls tangled in his hands. His lips on the hollow of her throat. Gasped names. Rope. Whispered commands. Her biting his shoulder to keep from screaming. His voice saying, “Tell me who this trout belongs to, Hermosa.”
Then, just as suddenly, they let go.
Back to reality.
He blinked.
She blinked.
“Uh. Thanks,” she muttered, grabbing her fish and fleeing with the speed of a woman who just emotionally time-traveled through three romance novels.
By the time she reached the tavern, she was already boasting. “Caught it with sheer instinct and grace!” she declared, ignoring the fact she still had moss on her butt and an orange peel stuck in her curls.
Everyone clapped. Tiny Bestie threw confetti made of leaf scraps.
But in her heart, Hermosa wasn’t thinking about the fish.
She was thinking about Mr. Papi.
And those oranges.
And those flashbacks.
And how her next fishing trip might just involve a fruit stand.