Rafe Mendez, 62, retired Port of Houston fireboat captain, sat on his usual scuffed vinyl stool at Gil’s Oyster Shack, the one facing the ship channel, where he could watch container ships creep through the gray chop of late May hurricane season. His left knee still ached when the barometric pressure dropped, a souvenir from the 2017 barge fire that had earned him a medal and an early medical discharge. He’d been coming to Gil’s every Friday for 12 years, ever since he sold the house he’d shared with his wife, Lena, and moved into a one-bedroom bungalow three blocks from the water. His worst flaw, he’d admit if pressed, was that he held grudges so long they grew roots in his bones, especially the one he’d carried for 18 years against Lena’s childhood best friend, Clara Bennett.
He spotted her the second she pushed through the screen door, rain plastering her silver-streaked auburn hair to her neck, her waterproof work boots caked in bay mud, the logo for her coastal bird rescue faded on the chest of her flannel. The bar was packed, every stool taken except the one two inches from his right elbow, the one regulars avoided because it sat under a leaky air conditioner vent that dripped cold water on your shoulder if you sat too long. She hesitated for half a second, then wiped her boots on the frayed doormat and headed straight for him, her gait a little stiff from a pelican rescue the week prior, when a 12-pound bird had flown straight into her ribs.
He tensed, ready to grab his beer and move to stand by the pool table, but she smiled first, a lopsided little grin that crinkled the corners of her hazel eyes, and said, “Mind if I crash? Every other spot’s taken, and I’m too cold to stand for an hour.” He grunted a yes, more out of habit than kindness, and shifted a half inch to the left to give her more room. She set her soaking wet rain jacket on the bar between them, the cuff brushing his bare forearm, and he jolted a little at the cold of the fabric, the faint scent of jasmine and salt clinging to it, the same perfume Lena had worn every day they were married. It made his chest tight, half anger, half something softer he couldn’t name. The bartender slid her usual IPA across the bar, and her fingers brushed his when she reached for the glass, her nails chipped, smudged with fish oil from feeding injured seagulls that morning. She laughed when she saw him staring at her nails, and said, “Tried to paint them for a charity gala last week. The pelicans didn’t care.”
They talked for an hour, first about the hurricane forecast, then about the stray brindle dog that hung around the bar parking lot begging for fried shrimp, then she brought up Lena out of nowhere, her voice soft, no edge to it. “You still think I talked her into that road trip, don’t you?” she said, and he froze, his beer halfway to his mouth. He’d never said that out loud to anyone, but he’d been cold to her for 18 years, skipped every family gathering she was at, avoided her at the grocery store, so he didn’t deny it. She leaned in a little, her knee brushing his under the bar, the heat of her leg seeping through the thin denim of his jeans, and looked him dead in the eye, no anger, just sadness. “She was already going, Rafe. She was scared you’d be mad, so she asked me to help her pack. She needed three days alone to figure out if she wanted to go back to school for marine biology. She was going to tell you when she got back.” The air left his lungs like someone had punched him in the gut, the grudge he’d carried for almost two decades crumbling so fast he felt dizzy. He’d spent 18 years hating her for something she didn’t do, 18 years wasting time pushing away the only other person who missed Lena as much as he did.
He apologized, gruff, awkward, the words sticking in his throat, and she waved it off, said she’d known he’d figure it out eventually, that she’d been leaving extra oyster shooters on his tab on the weeks she came in and he didn’t see her, because she knew they were his favorite. He offered to buy her dinner, the blackened catfish special she always ordered, and she said yes, her foot brushing his under the bar when she shifted in her seat. By the time they left the bar, the rain had slowed to a fine mist, the ship channel glowing gold from the dock lights, the distant horn of a container ship low and rumbly in the air. He carried her rain jacket for her, the fabric still damp, and when they reached the steps of her cottage two blocks away, she turned to him, her hand brushing his when she took the jacket from his grasp. He asked if he could come in, if she wanted to look at the old photos of Lena he had in his truck, the ones from their beach camping trips that she’d never seen. She nodded, stepping back to hold the door open for him, the scent of jasmine and salt wrapping around him again as he crossed the threshold.
