5 // Release
As 2024 comes to a close, Liv prepares for new beginnings—but not everything goes according to plan with The Angler.
Note: This is Part 5, the final installment of a serialized short story called The Angler. In case you’ve just arrived, here’s where to start:
Introducing The Angler
Part 1: Cast
Part 2: Lure
Part 3: Hook
Part 4: Reel
And now for Release.
I leaned against a light post, watching tourists queue up for the cable car—kids flailing, parents juggling shopping bags and strollers, doing their best to keep it all together. The bell clanged, street musicians hummed in the distance, and some guy on the corner shouted about an impending alien invasion. Just another quintessential San Francisco morning.
Orla was minutes away. Our plan was to do a little shopping at Nordstrom, followed by lunch and a full debrief of our lives.
While I waited, I texted with Sean.
“I’ve been thinking about your Jeep,” he wrote. “You need something better. Check these out.”
Two links popped up. A 1973 and a 1974 BMW 3.0 CS Coupe. One in Bailkal Blue, the other a lighter shade of blue.
“Curly cars,” he added.
I tapped through the photos. I had to admit—they were sexy. My stepmom had a 1980 320i when I was a kid, complete with a car phone—the kind you actually had to install. I used to hold it up to my ear in the passenger seat, pretending to be on an important call so strangers at red lights could witness my sheer sophistication.
Cringe.
Funny how cool had taken on an entirely different meaning now. I’d been detaching from stuff, challenging myself to live with less. A vintage Beemer didn’t quite fit the aesthetic.
I texted back. “Are you trying to change me already?” I added a laughing emoji.
“I just want Curly to be safe.”
Before I could respond, I heard a familiar voice.
“Livvvvvv!”
I looked up just in time to see Orla’s radiant face, thick waves of dark brown hair bouncing as she strode toward me, arms wide open.
I fired off a quick reply. “I am safe. I’ll call you later.”
Then, I launched myself into Orla’s hug—the kind that instantly dissolved the months and miles between us, as if no time had passed at all.
“So, what are we shopping for today?” Orla asked, vibrating with excitement.
“A dress for New Year’s Eve.” I answered.
“Fab.”
“...and maybe some lingerie.”
“Yessssss,” she squealed, grabbing my arm. “Now this I want to hear about.”
We linked arms and set off, weaving through Market Street—dodging a Segway and a guy aggressively pushing nightclub flyers. As the shopping center’s glass doors whooshed open, Orla nudged me. “Tell me everything.”
We circled around racks of bras and panties as I caught Orla up on all things Sean.
“What do you think about this?” She held up a black plunge-neck lace teddy, wiggling her brows.
I eyed it skeptically. “That might be a little too racy.”
She gasped theatrically. “What do you mean too racy? What guy in the history of Earth has ever said that?”
I filled her in on The Sex Talk Sean and I had the night before—how he’d shared that some of his clients had misjudged him, assuming he was into adult clubs and parties, only to be shocked when they found out he wasn’t.
“He asked if I’d ever been to one or done anything like that.”
Orla tilted her head. “And what did you say?”
“I told him I had. But that it wasn’t something I had any interest in doing more of.”
She crossed her arms. “And is that true?”
“It is,” I said, rifling through a rack of silk camis. “I feel like I’ve checked all the boxes. I’ve gleaned all the insights, curiosity—satisfied.”
Orla fell uncharacteristically silent. She wandered over to the sleepwear section and held up a flannel pajama set. “So… more like this?”
I cracked up. “Okay, okay. Point taken.”
She hung the PJs back on the rack with dramatic disgust. “So, what did he say when you told him that?”
“He said he’s more of a brush-your-teeth-have-sex-and-go-to-bed kinda guy.”
Orla made an exaggerated ick sound. “The fire is alive, I see.”
“Alright,” I countered. “Look, the last thing I want or need right now is some guy seeing me as a ticket to explore all the desires he’s repressed for the last 30 years. Been there, done that. No thank you. Plus, I think there’s something refreshing about him not needing all that. He knows who he is, and he owns it.”
She eyed me skeptically. “Fiiiine, I guess. As long as you don’t turn into a judgey old biddy.”
I shot her a look. “Orla. Hello. It’s me. That’s not going to happen.”
By the end of the afternoon, we were both hauling bags of victory. I found a flowy black silk dress and lingerie that hit just the right level of sexy. Orla, of course, went full throttle—her bags bursting with provocative, fierce ensembles for her upcoming trip to Rio de Janeiro.
We wrapped up the day with steaming bowls of pork pozole at Tropisueno before I walked her to the train station.
I gave her a long hug. “You mean the world to me.”
Orla squeezed me tight, then pulled back, brushing a curl from my face. “Listen Liv, I hope he’s sincere in what he says he wants.” She softened. “You have more emotional depth than anyone I know. I just hope he’s capable of meeting you there.”
“Time will tell.” I kissed her cheek. “I love you.”
“Love you too.” She turned and disappeared down the stairs, off to catch her train.
Rio had no idea what was about to hit it.
My flight was scheduled to depart Oakland at 6 AM, which meant my ride to the airport would be pulling up at 3:30 AM. Brutal.
I unzipped my suitcase and started packing—rolling jeans, layering sweaters, and stuffing socks into shoes. Sean was on speaker, doing his own version of packing. He was getting ready for a hunting trip the next day.
“What are your thoughts on marriage?” he asked.
I smiled, finding a place for my new dress. “You sure don’t shy away from the big topics.”
“Marriage is a big topic?” he teased.
“Well, obviously I’ve signed up for it. Twice. I’m not saying I’d never do it again, but there’d have to be a compelling reason. And, at this moment, I’m not sure what that would be.”
“So you don’t need or want to get married?” he clarified.
I took a beat, tossing my charger into my carry-on. “I definitely don’t need to get married. And for me to want to, something would have to change.” I looked around for my sunglasses. “What about you?”
“I don’t know, Liv. I look at all the married couples I know, and they all seem varying degrees of miserable. I haven’t seen one example where I think—I want that.”
I nodded. “I’d have to think real hard to come up with a marriage I’d want to emulate.” I thought about it for a minute. “There are relationships I admire, but who knows what’s going on behind closed doors? Some of the ones I’ve thought were solid have ended just as fast as the ones that seemed doomed from the start. It’s a crapshoot.”
I pulled the zipper around my suitcase and pressed it down, making sure everything fit. “So, you brought me up to your family over Christmas?”
“I did. Told my mom about you.”
“Oh yeah? What’d she say?”
“She goes, ‘Sean, are you sure you want some girl underfoot?’”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Underfoot? If there’s one place you won’t find me, it’s under your foot.”
“I know!” he said. “That’s what I told her. I said you have your own life, your own business, your own hobbies. You’re not about to be trailing behind me.”
“Glad we’re clear on that,” I said, shoving my laptop into my bag.
“So do you think you’ll end up in Mountain View?”
I exhaled. “I’ll certainly be there for some time. My focus is getting my mom moved in and settled. But after that… who knows? I want to spend some time there before making any big decisions.”
“What about Anna? Where do you think she’ll land?”
“Oh jeez, I have no idea. I’ve learned not to plan my life around what I think she might do. She’s got her whole life ahead of her.”
“Well, just so you know,” he said, “if somewhere down the line you felt like you needed to be near her—like, if she had a baby or something—you’d be half of this relationship. I’d say, looks like we’re moving to Cali for a few years.”
That caught me off guard. I set my bag down on the floor.
“That’s… nice to hear,” I said carefully. “But that’s a long way off. We don’t need to worry about that.”
“I’m just sayin’—family first.”
“Okay, handsome. I’m packed and ready to go. I gotta get some sleep—my ride’s coming in just a few hours.”
“Get some rest,” he said. “Safe travels—and text me when you land.”
“I will. Night.”
I plugged in my phone, washed my face, and crawled into bed. As I set my alarm, a new message popped up.
“I love our open communication.”
I typed back. “Me too. It’s everything.”
Then I set the phone on my nightstand, and instantly fell asleep.
Kansas greeted me with below zero temps when I returned. The kind that constrict your lungs when you breathe too deep.
Mom and I spent the next two days mapping out the whirlwind ahead. Once I got back from the ranch, we’d drive to Mountain View for her closing. Then we’d return, start packing up the house, and by the end of February, she’d be settled into her new home. Somewhere in there, I’d also be jetting off to Cozumel with Sean.
It was the night before I was set to leave, Mom lingered in my room while I organized my bag. I slipped on the dress I’d bought for New Year’s Eve—just in case we decided to attend the dinner party he mentioned.
She clapped from her perch on the bed. “It’s perfect.”
“You think?” I smoothed the fabric over my hips, eyeing myself in the mirror.
“Oh yeah,” she said, nodding. “Gorgeous.”
I folded the dress carefully and tucked it into my suitcase.
A pang of guilt crept in. I’d been away for Christmas, and now I’d be gone for New Year’s too. “I hate leaving you alone again.”
She waved me off. “Don’t be ridiculous. I need some time to myself anyway.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. I might even sleep in your bed while you’re gone. It’s warmer than mine.”
I chuckled, zipping up my bag. “You do whatever you need to do.”
She kissed my cheek and squeezed my arms. “Since I probably won’t see you in the morning—have a wonderful time. Enjoy yourself.”
I gave her another hug. “Thank you mama.”
I climbed into bed a little before 10 PM, winding down with my phone in hand.
Sean and I texted about the drive in the morning.
“I know it can be stressful to come home from a trip and have a houseguest show up right after.” I wrote. “Low stress, right? I’m an easy guest.”
He replied. “We’re just walking around and laying low.”
“Perfect,” I texted back. “Sweet dreams.”
My alarm went off at 7:45 AM.
I reached for my phone, squinting at the screen, and tapped off the alarm. I clicked the new message from Sean.
7:28 AM — “Liv, I am getting cold feet about your visit. I feel strongly that our differences in lifestyle, religion, marriage, politics, friends… a lot of things… make a future cloudy. I like it here, and I think here would be hard for you.”
I smiled at his joke.
And then my brain caught up.
I sat up in bed and reread the text.
I am getting cold feet.
I feel strongly that our differences… make a future cloudy.
Differences.
I read it again.
Then again, trying to untangle the words into something sensible.
My stomach turned.
How is this even a text?
I called him. It rang twice, then went to voicemail.
A text flashed across my screen. “I will call you when I get out of this meeting.”
I felt sick. My pulse thumped inside my ears and my neck ran hot.
I looked at my bag, packed and ready, sitting by the door.
Here would be hard for you.
I threw off the blankets, my body suddenly too hot. I got up and reached for the nearest clothes—leggings, a fleece, thick socks—and slipped on my boots.
Koda followed me into the living room. I clipped on her leash, pulled on my coat and a wool hat, and stepped out into the bitter morning air.
The wind chill slapped me across the face.
Cold feet.
Koda stopped at the end of the driveway, sniffing two blades of grass poking through the snow. Then she squatted and peed on them.
We moved on to the end of the block, rounded the corner, and then made our way down the hill to the park. My boots crunched over the snow.
I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out my phone, and reread his message—again—commanding my brain to compute.
But after three more reads, it still didn’t make sense.
We exited the other side of the park, crossed Main street, and trudged toward the cemetery.
A block from the church, my phone rang.
I sucked in the freezing air and answered. “Hello?”
“Good mornin.”
“Morning,” I responded flatly.
“How’d you sleep?”
Are you serious?
“I slept well.” I was reeling. “What’s going on, Sean?”
“I didn’t want to have this conversation over text but I wanted to let you know as soon as possible.”
Koda dragged me over to a tree and started circling.
Sean continued, “Last night, I was working with a carpet cutter at the house and he kept dropping the N-word. And all I could think was—this would be a problem for Liv.”
But not for you.
Koda hunched over, tail lifted. Three extra-large turds landed in the bright white snow.
“And then I got to thinkin’ about all the people I’d been around for the last week—from MAGA friends to my neighbors, and the guys I was hunting with—and I just can’t see you enjoying any of them.”
Keeping her crouch, Koda took a few more steps, then bore down and pooped again.
“And your views on organized religion don’t match mine. I realized, I do want to get married and go to church with my wife.”
I felt the urge to interrupt him—to demand how, at almost 50 and never married, and five weeks into our…whatever this was…he was just now realizing all this. But something inside stopped me.
Let him.
I took out a poop bag, shoved my hand inside, and grabbed as much crap as I could possibly hold. The warmth of the fresh brown turds radiated through the thin plastic. I flipped the bag inside out, expertly containing the shit.
“And honestly,” he added, “I don’t like that you assumed we’d have sex during your first visit. I’m just not ready for that. I don’t even know you.”
He paused.
I tied the top of the shit bag into a knot.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “I feel like I need a minute to catch up since all of this is brand new information.” I tried swallowing to loosen the tightness in my throat. It was like all the moisture had been extracted. “It sounds like you’ve reached a new level of understanding.” I inhaled so deep it hurt. “And I’m not interested in convincing you otherwise.”
I tossed the sack of dog shit into the trash bin in the church parking lot. “It sounds like we should cancel my visit.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I just don’t want to get something started if I know it’s not going to go anywhere.”
Started?
“Okay, Sean. I wish you well and hope—“
Click. He hung up.
I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at the ended call screen.
8:16 AM.
What… the actual… fuck?
No “Thanks for understanding, Liv.”
No “It’s been great getting to know you, Liv.”
No “Take care of yourself, Liv.”
Just—click.
My body felt like it was in a freeze state. I forced my feet to move.
The streets were eerily quiet—no cars, no other movement. And then I remembered…
It’s New Year’s Eve!
Who does this?
Koda and I reached the house. I unclipped her leash, dropped my coat on the floor, and crawled back into bed.
I felt the warmth of Mom’s hand on my shoulder.
“I thought you’d be gone by now.”
I kept my face buried in the pillow. “He canceled,” I mumbled.
“What?” Her voice sharpened. “He canceled?”
I pulled the blanket down just enough to see her wide-eyed expression.
“What happened?”
I rolled onto my side to face her. “He got cold feet.”
“Cold feet?”
I groaned. “Mom, you can’t just parrot back everything I say.”
She huffed, settling into the chair next to the desk. “Well, I’m so confused.” She crossed her arms. “What happened?”
I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and read her the text. Then I recounted our phone call.
She sat in stunned silence.
“I’m shocked,” she finally said. “None of this sounds like the Sean I met.”
“I know! I feel like I’m in The Upside Down.”
“Did you guys have an argument about any of this?”
“No,” I said, frustrated. “That’s what’s so crazy-making. We talked about all of it. And each time, I left the conversation feeling like we were on the same page.”
She shook her head. “Wow. I’m… I’m sorry, Liv. I don’t know what to say. I’m just in shock.”
“There’s nothing to say.” I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head.
Apart from a few trips to the kitchen to fill up my water bottle and nibble on a lemon pound cake Mom made, I stayed in bed.
My phone buzzed intermittently as New Year’s Eve messages rolled in.
Orla: “Happy New Year, Love! I hope you’re in your new lingerie!”
Anna: “Happy New Year, Mama! Love you! I hope you and Sean are having a great time!”
Anna’s dad: “Happy 2025, Liv. Can’t wait to hear about the ranch!”
Each message, a little reminder of the night I was supposed to be having.
To each, I replied, “Love you! Happy New Year to you too!”
The next morning, I putzed around the kitchen, moving on autopilot. I scooped coffee grounds into the filter, filled the pot with water, emptied it into the maker, and pressed brew.
As I leaned against the counter, waiting for the coffee to drip, Sean’s words resurfaced in my mind.
Catch and release. It’s probably not the trout’s best day, but I let ‘em go.
I unlocked my phone, typed the term into Google, and skimmed the results.
“Catch and release fishing is a recreational fishing practice that involves returning a fish to the water after it has been caught. It’s a conservation strategy that helps to keep fish populations healthy and viable for future generations.”
I refined my search.
“Catch and release dating is a conscious or unconscious behavior pattern where someone actively pursues a romantic connection, showers the other with attention and enthusiasm, only to lose interest and move on once the ‘thrill of the catch’ fades.”
There it is.
Sean hadn’t been building something. He’d been playing something. The flattery, the gifts, the grand invitations, the you’re so special texts—it had all been sport. The second I was caught, the moment it was about to become something real, the game was over.
He didn’t suddenly realize on New Year’s Eve that we didn’t mesh.
It was always about the pursuit. The temporary high of reeling something in.
And once the excitement was about to give way to something deeper?
Release.
With my freshly brewed coffee in hand, I settled into my desk chair and cracked open my laptop.
The sting of rejection still lingered, but something else had started to take its place—clarity.
When Sean invited me to The Nutcracker, I had been yearning for inspiration, not a relationship.
And I sure as hell wasn’t a fish.
I was a writer. A storyteller. And if anyone was doing the catching and releasing now, it was me.
I opened a new Google Doc and stretched my fingers.
The cursor blinked expectantly.
Then, with steady hands and sharp precision, I cast the first line:
The Angler.
I leaned back, tapping my fingernail against the mug, letting the words sink in.
One of us had been reeling the other in. The question was—who had really been caught?
Because this—this was a story worth telling.
The scooping of the oozing, hot, poop while getting this baffling news is golden! So many thoughts, but your writing is beautiful and I hope this gives you some closure. I guess it is too soon for the "there are plenty more fish in the sea" comment....?? 😂