Free A Year Straight by Elena Azzoni Page A

picked Jared. Or rather, she was his “staff pick” during a business trip to Chicago. And though he’d since moved on, her four-inch heels were planted firmly in place.
    It was the typical case of wanting what you can’t have. But it was more than just that. I had witnessed too many women pining after guys who treated them like crap while there were seventeen other “nice guys” making unreturned calls. I’d done it myself, and I still couldn’t solve the mystery. The last boyfriend I’d had before I met Amy was a complete mess of a man. Our courtship lasted five months, which sounds like an acceptably short amount of time to spend in a bad relationship. But it’s really not, especially when it’s so bad that rather than tend to you when you’ve just had all four wisdom teeth removed, he steals your Percocet, downs them with vodka, and then crashes and breaks your beloved vintage Schwinn (also stolen while you were sprawled out on your bed in a fog).
    There was a sea of men out there, but finding a keeper, for even a one-night stand, was going to pose a challenge. Perhaps I was spoiled, having been surrounded by great men growing up. My expectations were, as Megan was constantly reminding me, too high. My dad and brother had been nothing less
than a rock-solid foundation. I’d always been able to look to them for an ear, and a warm bowl of risotto, in the midst of heartache. But I seemed to be a rare breed—one of the few to have been blessed with such present, supportive male figures. I didn’t have an answer for my sudden interest in men, but one thing I knew for sure was that I wasn’t fishing to fill a void. I’d been fishing my entire life.
    I’d protest every time, but my dad still woke me at the crack of dawn, for there were lessons to be learned, above and beyond how to tie a fly.
    â€œElena, I will be downstairs.” His voice always grew a little stern on the third attempt to wake me. I’d drag myself out of bed, pull on some pants over my pajamas, throw on a couple more shirts, and head down to the too-bright kitchen in a sleepy stupor. My dad would be pouring hot tea into a thermos. Red Rose tea with honey and milk—a hug in a mug. The car would be packed with the fishing rod I got for Christmas and my tackle box, a birthday gift. The tackle box had failed to compete with the Barbie Dreamtime set I’d asked for (complete with matching pajamas for Barbie and me). But when it came to fishing with my dad, I’d come to forget about Barbie Dreamtime, and time altogether for that matter.
    Upon devouring our breakfast of homemade oatmeal with bananas, raisins, and sunflower seeds all cooked in, we’d hop into the burgundy station wagon that somehow
survived the towing of many a boat too big. As we’d pull out of the gravel driveway in the quiet of dawn, the only sounds would be the pebbles popping under the tires and our dogs barking in protest. By the time we’d reached the lake, only twenty minutes away, it would be day. Birds from every angle would be welcoming the sun, each other, and us. My dad would reverse the car onto the boat ramp. That was always my least favorite part of the excursion, second only to unpacking the car. I’d get out of the car and into the boat and hold it close to the dock as he backed the trailer into the oily water. It always looked like he’d go too far and back the burgundy wagon right into the water. Then, at what always seemed like the last possible moment, the boat would let loose and my dad would punch the gas, skidding up the ramp and off to park the car. I’d wrap the rope around the pole of the dock, just as I’d been taught, and await his return. At age eight, it was a hefty responsibility, and I felt proud. But inevitably, as I waited, I’d start to imagine the boat coming loose from the dock and drifting into the middle of the lake with me in it. It was a