Manny Rocha is 62, three years retired from a 38 year career as an air traffic controller out of the Albuquerque Sunport, now living in a creaky 1970s A-frame a half mile from Oregon’s Cannon Beach. His only steady companion is his 10 year old golden retriever, Max, and his biggest flaw is that he’s spent every day since his wife Elaina’s passing from triple negative breast cancer convinced that any flicker of happiness not tied to her memory is a betrayal. He’d avoided the annual Seafood and Craft Beer Festival for two years straight, only showing up this year because Max’s vet had insisted the old dog needed more socialization, and the festival had a designated dog play area tucked between the oyster booths and the bluegrass stage.
He’d ditched Max with a group of friendly retriever owners 20 minutes prior, slipping away to the beer tent to avoid a pair of retired teachers from his neighborhood who kept trying to set him up with their widowed sister from Portland. The air reeks of fried calamari, briny Dungeness crab, and pine blown in from the coastal forests, and the low twang of a fiddle cuts through the yells of kids chasing seagulls that keep stealing chunks of fish and chips off unwatched picnic tables. He’s halfway through his second cold IPA, leaning against a rough canvas support pole, when he decides he’s ready to grab a third and head back to check on Max.
The volunteer pouring beer is Lila Marquez, 56, who runs the tiny sea glass shop on the main drag that Manny has walked past a hundred times but never entered. She’s got a thick braid of dark hair streaked with silver slung over one shoulder, a smudge of beer foam on her lower lip, and a neon orange festival volunteer lanyard tangled around the neck of her faded flannel shirt. When Manny steps up to the bar, she reaches for the IPA tap at the exact same second he lifts his hand to adjust the frayed brim of his old FAA ball cap, and their knuckles brush. The contact sends a warm tingle up Manny’s forearm that he hasn’t felt in close to a decade, and he yanks his hand back like he’s touched a hot stove, immediately hot with shame. He feels disgusted with himself, for even noticing the way her forearms are freckled from months of beach walks, for catching the faint smell of coconut sunscreen and salt on her skin, for feeling anything that isn’t grief for Elaina.
Lila doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort, just laughs, a low, rough sound that fits the coastal weather, and wipes her hand on her jeans. “Sorry about that. Clumsy day, I’ve already spilled three pints on people’s shoes. You’re the guy with the golden that steals every frisbee in the dog park, right?” Manny nods, his throat tight, and manages to mumble an anecdote about Max stealing a neon pink frisbee from a toy poodle the week prior that makes Lila snort so hard she has to cover her mouth with her hand. She says she sees him every morning at the park, always sitting on the same splintered bench, never staying to chat with the other owners, and Manny finds himself admitting he’s been avoiding people, scared that anyone who knew him and Elaina would judge him for not moping forever.
Lila nods, wiping down the edge of the bar with a rag, and says she avoided the festival for two years after her ex husband left her for a 28 year old yoga instructor from Bend, convinced everyone in town was gossiping about how she’d driven him away. “Small towns love keeping score,” she says, sliding the fresh IPA across the bar to him, their fingers brushing again, this time on purpose, just for half a second. “Took me forever to realize no one’s score matters but your own.”
A sudden, sharp rain shower hits right then, fat cold drops splattering through the open sides of the tent, and a crowd of teens and festival goers surge inside to get out of the downpour. Someone shoves Manny hard from behind, and he stumbles forward, catching himself on the edge of the bar, his shoulder pressed tight to Lila’s, their faces only six inches apart. He can see flecks of gold in her moss green eyes, the faint laugh lines around her mouth, and he doesn’t pull away. For the first time in three years, the guilt that’s been sitting like a rock in his chest loosens, just a little, and he doesn’t feel like he’s doing something wrong for wanting to stay right there, pressed up against her, listening to the rain hammer on the canvas roof.
The rain lets up as quickly as it started, the sun breaking through the clouds to paint a faint double rainbow over Haystack Rock a mile out. Lila glances at her watch, then back at Manny, and says her shift ends in 15 minutes, asks if he wants to split a plate of grilled oysters over by the pier, and bring Max out to the beach with her tomorrow to hunt for rare cobalt blue sea glass she’s been chasing for a custom necklace order. Manny nods, his throat too tight to talk for a second, and carries his IPA over to a picnic table a few feet away from the tent, sitting down where he can still see her. He watches her laugh as she hands a beer to an old commercial fisherman with a white beard down to his chest, feels the warm sun on his face, the cold fizz of the IPA on his tongue, and doesn’t even care when he sees the two retired teachers from his neighborhood spot him sitting there, watching Lila, and nudge each other, grinning. He taps his finger twice on the side of his pint glass in a quiet, unspoken yes, and when she glances over at him 30 seconds later, he doesn’t look away.
