Moe Castellano, 62, retired FAA air traffic controller with a decades-long habit of holding grudges longer than he held his last marriage, hunched over a plate of raw oysters at The Salty Rim Friday night. The bar was packed for the post-Hurricane Idalia cleanup fundraiser, picnic tables strung with fairy lights, a local country band scratching through a cover of *Chattahoochee* in the corner. He wiped Tabasco off the calloused heel of his hand, took a long sip of Abita, and froze when he spotted her through the crowd.
Elara Voss. The woman he’d blamed for his divorce for 22 straight years. He’d avoided every local event she might attend since she moved back to Pensacola last year to open her sea glass shop, had even left the hardware store early three weeks prior when he saw her pickup in the parking lot. He’d spent more than two decades convinced she’d ratted him out to his ex-wife for skipping their 10th anniversary to go deep sea fishing with his buddies, had called her a backstabbing snake to anyone who’d ask, and had never once let her explain.
The bar was so packed the only open stool was the one to his left. She hesitated for half a second, gave him a small, tight nod, and slid onto it. Her bare upper arm brushed his when she reached for a stack of paper napkins, and he caught a whiff of coconut sunscreen and briny sea air, the same scent he’d half-remembered from back when they’d all hung out on the pier as younger adults. He tensed, jaw tight, and stared hard at his oysters like they held the answer to getting out of this conversation.
“Those look better than the ones we used to sneak off the old county pier back in ‘98,” she said, nodding at his plate. Her voice was a little rougher than he remembered, like she spent most days talking over wind and wave noise. He grunted noncommittally, picked up another oyster, and squeezed lemon so hard the juice squirted onto his wrist. She laughed, a low, warm sound, and handed him a wet wipe from her purse. Their fingers brushed when he took it, and he felt a jolt he hadn’t expected, sharp and warm, straight to his chest.
He fought the urge to yank his hand away, half disgusted with himself for even noticing how nice her laugh was, half curious why she was being so nice to him after all the garbage he’d said about her. He glanced up at her for the first time, and his throat went a little dry. Her dark hair had streaks of silver at the temples, pulled back in a loose braid, and she wore a tiny pendant of pale blue sea glass on a thin silver chain around her neck. Her knee brushed his under the bar, intentionally he thought, and she leaned in a little so he could hear her over the band.
“I never ratted you out, you know,” she said, so quiet only he could hear. He froze mid-sip of beer, stared at her. “Your ex already had her bags packed when you left for that trip. She was cheating on you with her coworker, used the fishing trip as an excuse so she wouldn’t have to admit it. She told me if I didn’t back up her story, she’d tell everyone I’d been hitting on you. I was 37, new to the area, scared to lose the only group of friends I had. I’m sorry I didn’t say something sooner.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. 22 years of resentment, of sneering every time someone mentioned her name, of skipping events he wanted to go to just to avoid her, all of it for nothing. He stared at her, speechless, and she reached out, touched his wrist lightly, her fingers cool from holding her iced tea, a small, rough callus on her thumb from sorting through piles of sea glass every day. The contact burned through the thin cotton of his flannel shirt, and all the anger he’d carried for so long melted away so fast he felt lightheaded.
He apologized, first gruff, then softer, when he realized how much of an ass he’d been for two whole decades. He bought her a shot of bourbon, then another, and they talked until the band packed up their gear and the bartender started stacking chairs on the tables. He learned she spent three hours a day walking the beach looking for sea glass, that she’d never been married, that she’d loved fishing since she was a kid growing up in Tampa. She laughed at his story about the 7-foot bull shark he’d reeled in last summer, leaned in so close her hair brushed his cheek when he showed her a photo of the catch on his phone.
When they walked out onto the boardwalk, the Gulf air was warm and thick with the smell of jasmine from the dunes, crickets chirping loud in the brush next to the parking lot. He walked her to her beat-up old Toyota pickup, and she paused with her hand on the door handle, looked up at him, her eyes dark in the glow of the string lights strung along the boardwalk. She leaned up, kissed him soft on the corner of the mouth, and he could taste the bourbon and salt on her lips.
“I’ve been waiting 25 years to do that,” she said, grinning, when she pulled back. He laughed, surprised, and asked her if she wanted to go out on his boat with him Sunday, to fish for red snapper, maybe stop at that little beach shack for po’boys afterward. She said yes, no hesitation, and climbed into her truck, waving as she pulled out of the parking lot.
He leaned against the splintered wooden rail of the boardwalk, watched her taillights fade down the dark coastal road, and licked the faint salt and coconut taste off his lower lip.
