Russell “Rusty” Pritchard, 62, has made his living restoring vintage fishing reels out of his garage workshop in coastal Oregon for the last 18 years, ever since he took an early retirement from the local fish processing plant. His biggest flaw? He’s spent the eight years since his wife Elaine passed stubbornly clinging to the idea that he’s better off alone, turning down every half-hearted set-up from neighbors and every invitation to group fishing trips, even when the quiet of his empty house presses so hard on his chest he can barely breathe. He only leaves the property twice a week: once to pick up parts and groceries, once for the VFW’s Friday night fish fry, a tradition he’s kept since he was 22.
The second he walks through the VFW doors that mid-July evening, he spots her. Lila Marlow, 28, his late best friend Joe’s only daughter, the kid he taught to bait a hook when she was 10, the one he’d custom-built a lightweight trout reel for for her 16th birthday. She moved to Portland for college six years back, he hasn’t seen her since Joe’s funeral. Her auburn hair is tied back with a gingham bandana, there’s a smudge of tartar sauce on her left cheek, and she’s serving up coleslaw behind the folding table in cutoff denim shorts and a faded Oregon State hoodie, the same one Joe used to wear to football games.
He freezes mid-step when she sees him, grins so wide the dimples in her cheeks pop. He moves through the line on autopilot, and when she leans across the table to hand him his plate piled high with fried catfish and hushpuppies, their fingers brush. Her skin is warm, soft, he yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, and his face heats up so fast he’s sure half the room notices. She doesn’t pull away immediately, holds eye contact a beat longer than she should, the corner of her mouth quirking up like she knows exactly what just ran through his head.
He sits at his usual table in the back, picks at his food for 20 minutes, scolding himself the entire time. She’s Joe’s kid. She’s young enough to be his daughter. He’s a grown man, a widower, he shouldn’t be sitting here replaying the brush of her fingers like a kid with a schoolyard crush. It’s wrong, gross, a betrayal of both Joe and Elaine. He chugs his beer, stands up to leave, and spots her leaning against the back porch rail, smoking a menthol, staring right at him.
His feet move before he can talk himself out of it. He steps out onto the porch, the cool coastal breeze cutting through the sticky humidity, and sits down on the weathered wooden bench next to her. She shifts closer when she sits, her shoulder pressing against his bicep, so he can smell coconut shampoo and mint on her breath, mixed with the faint tang of cigarette smoke. Crickets hum in the brush lining the building, the distant crash of waves carries over the treetops.
They make small talk at first, about her mom’s arthritis, about the run of coho that had come up the river earlier that month, about the stack of reels he’s got waiting for repair in his shop. She tells him she moved back to town to take care of her mom, got a job at the local hardware store, still has that reel he made her 12 years ago, uses it every time she goes out to the river. She keeps glancing at his mouth when he talks, fidgeting with the frayed hem of her hoodie, and he can feel his pulse thudding in his ears.
He’s mid-sentence about a 1950s Penn reel he just finished restoring for a client in Texas when she reaches up, brushes a crumb of fried catfish off his chin with her thumb. Her thumb lingers on the rough stubble of his jaw for three full seconds, and he stops talking entirely, his throat gone dry. “I had the biggest crush on you when I was a kid,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, like she’s admitting something she’s been holding onto for years. “Used to beg my dad to take me to your shop, just so I could watch you work. Always thought you were the coolest guy I’d ever met.”
Rusty’s head is spinning. He knows he should stand up, walk away, tell her that’s sweet but it’s impossible, that he’s too old, that her dad would roll in his grave if he knew they were even having this conversation. But when she leans in a little closer, her knee pressing against his, he can’t make himself move. He reaches up, wraps his calloused hand around her wrist, his fingers brushing the small anchor tattoo on the inside of her arm, the same one Joe had on his forearm. “You know this is crazy,” he says, his voice rough, thick with want he can’t hide anymore.
She laughs, soft, leans in so her lips are almost touching his, and he can feel her breath on his mouth. “Crazy feels good for a change, doesn’t it?”
He stays on that porch with her for another hour, talking, their shoulders pressed together the entire time, occasionally brushing fingers when they pass the cigarette back and forth. When it gets dark, he walks her to her beat-up old Toyota pickup parked at the edge of the lot. She leans against the driver’s side door, tilts her head up at him, and asks if he wants to come back to her place. Says that old reel he made her is acting up, needs a tune up, and she’s got a six pack of his favorite beer in her fridge.
Rusty doesn’t even hesitate. He nods, tells her he’ll follow her there, and when she grins, leans up to kiss him quick on the cheek before she climbs into her truck, his face heats up again, this time from something a lot less guilty than shame. He gets into his own Ford F-150, turns the key in the ignition, and watches her taillights pull out of the lot. He shifts his truck into drive, the hum of the engine matching the rapid thud of his heart, and pulls out behind her taillights, no plans to turn back.
