Early the next morning, the wagon groaned the whole way down Highway 98, the bass boat rattling behind us on the trailer like it wanted to break loose. Wyatt kept both hands on the wheel, eyes forward, jaw set. Neither of us talked. The night before was still sitting between us, and the sky wasn’t even awake when we turned into the Lake Gibson ramp. Mist rolled low across the water, soft and pale, and the air smelled like wet grass and outboard fuel. The kind of morning that felt too quiet for the mess we’d made.
Wyatt eased the wagon down the gravel, tires crunching slowly. I spotted the truck before he did.
Parked crooked, headlights off, driver’s door open. He was sitting on the tailgate, hoodie pulled tight, elbows on his knees. Smoking a cigarette. He looked like he’d been there a while.
Wyatt let out a short breath. “He actually came.”
“Yeah.”
We pulled up beside him. The wagon’s engine was ticking as it cooled, the boat trailer creaking behind us. Randy looked up when we stepped out, eyes tired but clear.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough.
Wyatt nodded. “You beat us here.”
Randy shrugged. “Didn’t sleep.”
“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “Me neither.”
The three of us stood there for a second, the lake stretching out behind us, the sun just starting to smear a thin orange line over the trees. No one brought up the fight. No one brought up the girls. No one brought up the Mobil lot.
Randy hopped off the tailgate and walked toward the trailer. “You want help backing it in?”
Wyatt blinked. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”
Randy moved to the water’s edge, guiding Wyatt with slow hand signals as the wagon reversed down the ramp. I stood beside him, watching the boat slide toward the lake.
That’s when Randy said something. Something that stuck. Something that made us hate him a little less.
“Yo! Turn the wheel…This Burgundy Battle Beast. That’s it, straighten up,” he barked, cigarette in his lips. Wyatt and I are laughing at the name he just christened the old wagon with.
The boat eased into the water with a soft splash. Randy waded in up to his ankles, unhooking the winch strap like he’d done it a hundred times. Wyatt killed the engine and climbed out, meeting us at the shoreline.
Randy pushed the bow off the trailer and steadied it. “She’s floating.”
Wyatt nodded. “Burgundy Battle Beast? Huh. I like that. Thanks.”
Randy shrugged again, but there was something different in it this time. Less bravado. More… human.
We loaded the cooler, the rods, and the tackle box. No one talked much. We didn’t need to. The lake was quiet, the morning soft, and the night before felt far away but not gone.
When everything was in place, Randy stepped back and wiped his hands on his shorts.
“So,” he said, not looking at either of us. “We fishing, or what?”
Wyatt cracked the smallest smile. “Yeah. We’re fishing.”
We drifted out past the point, the water calm enough to see our reflections ripple under the boat. We let the current carry us to the fish beds.
Wyatt cast first. Randy followed. I thumbed open the tin of Copenhagen and held it out.
“You want a pinch?”
Randy blinked, surprised. “Yeah… yeah.”
He took it, packed it, and settled it in his lip. The kind of gesture that said more than any apology ever would.
Wyatt adjusted the motor angle, eyes on the water. “You’re gonna spit in the lake, right? Don’t be nasty.”
Randy snorted. “Relax. I ain’t heathen.”
Wyatt didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
We fished in silence for a minute.
Randy reeled in slowly. “You know… I thought you were gonna kill me last night.”
Wyatt shrugged.
“Yeah,” Randy said. “But you tackled me like a damn linebacker.”
Wyatt cast again. “I am.”
Randy nodded, eyes on the water. “Yeah. I know.”
That was it. That was the apology.
He flicked his line out again, letting it sink. A minute passed.
Then Randy said, “You’re alright, man.”
Wyatt didn’t look at him. “You too.”
Another minute.
Randy glanced at me. “And you… Geez, if you ever put your weight behind your swing. You’re killing somebody.”
I smirked. Randy laughed under his breath.
Wyatt hooked a bass a few minutes later. Randy leaned over to help him get it in the boat, careful not to get finned. They didn’t talk about last night.
They didn’t need to.
Boys don’t apologize.
They just… shift. Wyatt held up the bass, and I took a photo of it with Randy in the background.
Boys don’t apologize.
They move over an inch.
Make room.
Cast a line.
A few minutes later, my rod tip jerked hard.
“Fish on,” I muttered, leaning back.
Wyatt perked up. “Big?”
“Feels like it.”
Randy stood, bracing the side of the boat. “Don’t horse it. Let it run.”
The bass broke the surface in a flash of green and white, tail slapping at us. Taunting us.
Randy whooped like he’d hooked it himself.
“Damn, that’s a good one!”
Wyatt grabbed the net. “Bring him this way!”
The fish dove, my drag screaming. My heart kicked up with just pure, stupid excitement.
“Get him, dude!” Randy yelled.
I eased him in, rod bowed, arms burning. Wyatt scooped him clean, water spraying across all three of us. We burst out laughing, the kind that shakes loose everything tight inside you.
Randy slapped my shoulder. “Hell yeah, man!”
Wyatt held up the fish. “That’s at least five pounds.”
“Four,” Randy said.
“Three and a half,” I countered.
“Alright, Price Is Right,” Wyatt muttered, grinning.
We released the bass and cast again. The sun climbed higher as the mist burned off the lake.
The world felt simple in a way it didn’t yesterday.
Randy leaned back on the bench, stretching. “Man… this is better than fighting.”
Wyatt nodded. “Yeah.”
I cast again, watching the lure disappear into the dark water. “Yeah. It is.”
We were teenagers again, letting the lake smooth out the edges of a night none of us were ready to admit.