1 // Cast
Liv reconnects with a college acquaintance and agrees to a first date—with her mom in tow.
Note: This is a serialized short story called The Angler. In case you missed it, start here.
This is Part 1.
I stood in front of the open fridge, waiting for inspiration to strike. It didn’t. Just a half-empty box of Gambino’s pizza, already mediocre when I brought it home the night before. Thin crust, Italian sausage, onions, and black olives—now slightly congealed. The slices slid against the cardboard as I pulled it out.
The toaster oven light beamed over two pieces as I considered my unfinished tasks. Multiple client meetings, progress on two writing assignments, a long dog walk with Koda, and a chiropractor session had zapped all my energy.
I’ll finish in the morning.
I shimmied the reheated pizza onto a plate and settled into my stepdad’s recliner. Mom wasn’t home from work yet.
I bit the hot tip—instant regret. My tongue shot to the roof of my mouth as I exhaled sharply.
Haaaa. Haaa.
I let the steam escape as I grabbed the remote and turned on Netflix.
Our Oceans, narrated by Barack Obama.
Just what I need.
I hit play and mindlessly ate the rest of the pizza, lulled by Obama’s voice and the rhythmic sway of blue-green currents on the screen.
An intrusive thought disrupted the flow.
Scuba diving. Feels like it’s been forever.
But that wasn’t true. I’d been on two dive trips in 2020, just before the world shut down.
I snapped back to the present and took in the basement of my childhood home. The beige carpet begged for a vacuum, the brown leather couch was locked in its forever war against comfort, and the brick fireplace stood as an indifferent witness to it all. Dark walls. Low popcorn ceiling. The whole room felt heavy.
I guess this is my life now.
I knew I was being melodramatic, but six months of helping Mom navigate life without my stepdad had earned me the right.
Obama’s voice drifted on, but the ocean scenes only stirred something restless in me—something that felt impossibly far way. I clicked off the TV and took my empty plate to the sink.
The door to the garage opened, then closed. Mom’s footsteps moved overhead as I rinsed my plate.
“Liv? I’m home!” she called from the top of the stairs. “I’ll be right down.”
I set my plate in the drying rack. “It’s okay, Mom, I’m coming up.”
The stairs had taken on a new meaning. No longer just a passage between floors—they were the threshold where my stepdad’s life had ended.
It was impossible to stand near them without thinking of him. And for Mom, they were a daily reminder of the moment she found him at the bottom. Up and down, over and over, reliving it whether she wanted to or not.
I climbed the steep flight of stairs and met Mom around the corner in the hallway.
“How was your day?” I kissed her on the cheek.
“Oh, good. Busy.”
She was two weeks away from retiring—for real this time. Technically, she had already retired once, but then she went back part-time and somehow stayed for another 14 years. Come December 2nd, though, she’d be retired-retired at 77 years old.
I wandered into my bedroom, still listening as she changed in the next room, venting about how her co-workers—after all these years—still couldn’t get their expense reports right.
Koda was sprawled across my bed, luxuriating like she owned the place. The same bed, in the same room, where I spent my early teen years. I scooted her long legs over to make space, rubbed her soft tan belly, and kissed the top of her head.
Half-undressed, Mom peeked her head around the doorway.
“Did you eat already?”
“I did. Leftover pizza.”
“Good. I’m not hungry. Had a late lunch. Did I tell you I got a parking ticket?”
“No.” I rested my head on Koda’s rump and unlocked my phone. A Messenger notification popped up.
From the other room, Mom continued her rant about the injustice of said parking ticket.
“Did you put money in the meter?” I called out.
“No, I just had to run in and pick something up.”
I smirked. “Sounds like you deserved it.”
As I said it, my eyes landed on the name in my inbox.
Sean Swafford.
I opened the message and read:
“Hey. Where are you now?”
I scrolled up to see the last time we’d exchanged messages.
September 30, 2021.
We had chatted about my life in the Bay Area and my plan to leave once Anna graduated high school. He mentioned living just outside Bentonville and that he’d recently bought a 500-acre farm. I had asked what he was building on it, but he never responded.
The thing about Sean was that I couldn’t quite place him. We went to college together—I knew his name, recognized his face—but I didn’t have any distinct memories of him. He was just… there. A familiar presence without a clear story attached.
I scrolled further back through our message history. Every few years—like clockwork—Sean had sent some version of:
“Hey pretty lady. How are you?”
I hovered over one from 2013.
“Let’s meet in Denver and do a 14er this summer. I’ll buy.”
For some reason, he thought I was a climber. I had never responded.
I kept scrolling. Him asking if I’d gotten hitched yet. Him trying to track down my college boyfriend’s number. Him letting me know I’d crossed his mind…
I felt kinda bad seeing how short and vague my replies had been.
Maybe it was time to make an effort.
“Hey Sean. Actually, I’m back in Lawrence—just outside of town. My stepdad died unexpectedly in July, so I came back to Kansas to help my mom adjust and move her to Arkansas. How and where are you?”
Within seconds, the typing bubble appeared.
“Wow. Sorry to hear that. I’m good. I travel a ton but live on my ranch. Thought you got married a few years back?”
I didn’t have the energy to go there.
A follow-up message popped in before I could ignore the first.
“Where in Arkansas? So much great stuff here.”
I started typing. “My mom was born and raised in Mountain View. Her brother, sister, and lots of family and friends still live there. I spent my summers there as a kid.”
“You have a daughter, if I remember correctly. How old is she?”
“Yes, Anna. She’s 19 and a sophomore in college.”
A second later, a screenshot appeared—Google Maps, pinpointing the drive time between his place and Mountain View.
“3 hours and 29 minutes.”
He pressed again:
“Did you get a damn divorce?”
I sighed. “There was a wedding. We never legalized it, so no divorce needed. It’s a long story.”
“Will you be in KC over Thanksgiving?”
“Yes—nearby.”
“Would you and your mom like to go to The Nutcracker? I’ll take you both. We’ll get dressed up.”
I looked up from my phone, processing the unexpected invitation.
The Nutcracker?
I could hear Mom rustling around in her room, the sound of drawers opening and closing.
“Mom?” I called out, my voice unconsciously slipping into my teenage register.
A muffled “What?” came from down the hall.
“Do you want to go to The Nutcracker?”
The rummaging stopped. “When?”
“After Thanksgiving.”
I heard her footsteps shuffle closer before she appeared in my doorway.
“With whom?” she asked, hands on her hips.
I blinked at her bare legs trying to remember the female equivalent to shirt-cocking. “Can you not find any pants, or are you… just airing things out tonight?”
“I’m trying to find my sweats.” She gestured at my phone. “Who are you talking to?”
“A guy I went to KU with.”
“Who?”
“You don’t know him. I hardly know him. Sean Swafford.”
I barely got his name out before The Interrogator activated, firing off questions like a detective on her last case.
I held up a hand. “Stop. I don’t have the answers to any of these questions. Do you want to go or not?”
She considered it for half a second. “Sure! Let’s go.”
I chuckled. “Why not.”
Turning back to my phone, I messaged Sean.
“When are you thinking we’d go?”
He was still online. “I need to check availability. Probably the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Would your mother prefer a matinee or evening performance?”
Mom had resumed her sweatpants search party, so I didn’t bother asking.
“Matinee.”
A few minutes later, a screenshot popped up—three confirmed tickets to the Spencer Theatre for Saturday, November 30th.
“Wow! We’re doing it!”
“It’ll be fun. We can eat afterward, if time allows. Stock Hill is nice. You’re doing me a favor. I love going.”
“Sounds good.” I hesitated, then added, “My mom is kinda nutty, so this should be interesting.”
“It’s The Nutcracker! Plus, we’re all nuts.”
I swiped the app closed and looked over at Koda.
A date with my grieving mother and a guy I barely remember. What could possibly go wrong?
alright i confess, i badger you about writing because this is just not enough to satisfy my need of reading your words which take me into a different world. i need a novel or two i’ll give you till end of year🤗
Linzi, you have such a gift. I love your description of the house you grew up in, I feel like I am a literal fly on the wall! I can hardly wait for Part 2!