Rudy Galvan, 62, retired oil rig electrician, leaned against the rough bark of a longleaf pine at the town’s annual crawfish boil fundraiser, the neck of a cold Shiner in one hand, the tips of his other fingers still stained rust-red from cayenne and crawfish shell. He’d moved to the tiny Gulf Coast hamlet three years prior, after decades of 12-hour shifts on rigs 100 miles out in the Gulf, had a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 2017 wiring arc that had put him in the ER for three days. His biggest flaw, one he’d never quite been able to shake, was holding grudges until they rotted in his chest, heavy as a sack of wet concrete.
He’d been content to watch the retired firemen bicker over a washer toss game, ignore the teens screaming as they chased each other through the gravel lot, until he saw her. Lena Marquez. 60, if he did the math right, his ex-wife’s former best friend, the woman he’d blamed for 18 years for ratting him out about his weekly underground poker games, the “proof” his ex had used to file for divorce and take full custody of their then-12-year-old daughter. His jaw tightened so hard his molars ached. He’d sworn if he ever saw her again he’d tell her to go straight to hell, but for a second he couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. She was wearing a linen sundress the color of shallow saltwater, silver hoop earrings catching the golden late afternoon sun, her dark hair streaked with gray braided down her back. She spotted him before he could duck behind the pine, smiled, and started walking over.
He grunted a half-hearted greeting when she stopped a foot away, close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint tang of lime seltzer on her breath. She didn’t take the cold shoulder personally, just laughed, soft and low, and said she was in town visiting her granddaughter, who lived two houses down from his bungalow on the bay side. When he didn’t reply, she leaned in a little, voice raised over the honky tonk cover band playing by the food tent, and said she owed him an apology. She’d found out two years after his divorce that his ex had planted a GPS tracker under the bumper of his old F-150, had been planning to leave him for six months before the poker game ever came up, had used Lena as a scapegoat because she knew Rudy would believe it.
Rudy felt his face burn hot, embarrassment coiling in his gut. He’d hated this woman for almost half his adult life for no reason at all. The band cranked up a George Strait deep cut, loud enough that the bass hummed in his boots, so she stepped closer, her shoulder brushing his bicep as she talked about how she’d tried to track him down a dozen times over the years to tell him the truth, never had his address until she’d seen him fixing Mrs. Henderson’s generator last week and asked the neighbor who he was. A kid on a BMX swerved past them so close the handlebars almost clipped Lena’s elbow, and she grabbed his forearm to steady herself, her palm soft against the faded rough cotton of his old rig work shirt, her fingers curling just tight enough that he could feel the press of her nails through the fabric.
He didn’t pull away. He passed her a cold Shiner from the cooler at his feet, and their hands brushed when she took it, her fingers lingering for a split second longer than polite, her dark eyes holding his for a beat longer than casual conversation called for. He made a dumb joke about how he spent most of his retirement fixing generators for half the town for free, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth, and he realized he’d never heard her laugh back when they lived in Houston, never really talked to her for longer than five minutes at a time, because he’d always been too intimidated by how pretty she was, even when he thought she hated him.
When the sun started dipping low over the Gulf, painting the sky pink and tangerine, she nodded toward the wooden pier a quarter mile down the road and asked if he wanted to walk, get away from the noise. He hesitated for half a second, then nodded. They walked slow, the gravel crunching under his steel toe boots and her white canvas sneakers, her shoulder brushing his every third step, no need to talk over the noise of the crowd anymore. When they reached the end of the pier, they leaned against the weathered rail, the wind off the water blowing strands of her braid loose across her face. She said she’d always thought he was cute back then, even when he was being a stubborn ass who refused to listen to anyone who didn’t agree with him. He admitted he’d thought about her more times than he’d ever admit out loud, even when he was convinced she’d ruined his life. He reached out, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb brushing the soft curve of her cheek, and she didn’t pull away.
