Marlon Rios, 53, retired Air Force aircraft hydraulic technician, had perched on the same scuffed vinyl stool at Shuckers Oyster Bar every Saturday for 18 months straight. He’d outlasted three bartenders, two LSU losing streaks, and a dozen half-hearted attempts from local widows to slip him their phone numbers tucked under napkins. His biggest flaw, one his late sister had nagged him about until the day she died, was that he’d walled off any part of himself that could feel soft after his wife died in a car crash seven years prior. He’d moved to the tiny Florida panhandle town two years back to outrun the weight of old memories, fixed outboard motors for charter boat captains for extra cash, and spent most of his free time sanding down a 1972 Boston Whaler he kept parked in his side yard.
The annual seafood festival was blaring outside the bar the Saturday in question, a cover band hammering out a terrible version of Margaritaville, the air thick with the smell of boiled shrimp and cotton candy. He was halfway through his second draft beer, picking meat out of a dozen steamed oysters, when someone slid onto the stool right next to him, so close their denim-clad knee brushed his. He tensed, ready to brush off another advance, until he looked over and recognized Lena Marlow, his next door neighbor. He’d only spoken to her twice before: once when she’d banged on his door at 8PM on a Tuesday begging for a pipe wrench to fix a leaky hose bib, once when she’d dropped off a jar of homemade peach jam and a loaf of sourdough after he’d dragged her fallen oak tree branch off her garden fence after a storm. She was 49, ran the town’s community youth garden, had a streak of silver in her dark curly hair that caught the bar’s neon sign when she turned to smile at him.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she yelled over the noise, flagging the bartender down to order a mango hard seltzer and a side of fried okra. The shoulder of her faded denim jacket pressed against his flannel shirt when she leaned forward, and he caught a whiff of jasmine lotion and the faint briny smell of the dirt she worked in every day. He nodded, tapping the brim of his faded LSU hat. “Watching the game. Thought you’d be out at the festival selling your jam.” She snorted, popping a piece of okra in her mouth, her elbow brushing his forearm when she reached for the napkin holder. “My best friend bailed on me an hour ago, said her kid had a soccer emergency. Figured I’d hide out here until the crowd dies down. Nice hat, by the way. Bama’s gonna wipe the floor with y’all next month.”
He laughed, a rough rusty sound he didn’t make often, and they spent the next 45 minutes ribbing each other about college football, trading stories about the weirdest things people had left in community garden plots (she’d found a full set of golf clubs, he’d found a live alligator in a ditch behind his house once), and bitching about how much the new HOA board was overcharging for trash pickup. Every accidental brush of their hands when they reached for their drinks, every time she leaned in so close he could feel her breath on his cheek when she yelled over the band, made his chest feel tight, a weird flutter he’d forgotten existed. Half of him was screaming that this was stupid, that he was too old for this, that he’d only end up hurt again if he let himself get close to anyone. The other half of him couldn’t stop staring at the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, couldn’t stop noticing how soft her hand looked when it rested on the bar three inches from his.
The bartender leaned over a few minutes later, apologizing, said they’d run out of mango hard seltzer because the festival crowd had cleaned out their stock. Lena groaned, slumping back against her stool. “That’s the only flavor I like. Guess I’m heading home.” Marlon opened his mouth before he could think better of it, offered to drive her to the 24/7 convenience store a mile down the road, said he needed to pick up a pack of cigarette lighters anyway, even though he’d quit smoking three years prior. She grinned, nodding, and slid off the stool, grabbing her canvas tote bag slung over the back.
The sky had opened up by the time they stepped outside, cold heavy rain pouring down, soaking through his flannel in 10 seconds flat. He ran ahead to unlock his beat-up Ford F-150, opened the passenger side door for her, and his hand rested on the small of her back for three full seconds as she climbed up, the fabric of her jacket soaked through so he could feel the warmth of her skin underneath. She paused halfway into the truck, turning to look up at him, rain dripping off the ends of her curls onto his wrist. Their eyes locked for five beats, neither of them looking away, and the last of the stupid stubborn resistance he’d been clinging to for seven years melted right off him, same as the rain running down his neck.
They picked up her seltzer, and a pack of cherry Sour Patch Kids she insisted on buying for him, and drove back to the neighborhood, the radio playing old 90s country low in the background. He pulled into her driveway first, then remembered he had the spare PVC fittings she’d mentioned she needed for her broken rain barrel sitting on his workbench, so he walked next door to grab them, holding his jacket over her head to keep her dry. When he handed her the bag of parts, she shifted the seltzer to her other hand, and brushed a drop of rain off his cheek with her thumb. “You wanna come over for meatloaf tomorrow night?” she asked, tilting her head, that crinkly smile back on her face. He didn’t even hesitate, said yes before the question was fully out of her mouth.
When she waved as she walked up her porch steps, the yellow porch light glowing behind her through the streaking rain, he realized he hadn’t looked forward to a Tuesday in seven years.
