Rafe Marquez, 53, makes custom fishing rods out of the cinder block garage behind his cottage on the North Carolina coast, and he’s avoided anything resembling a date for seven straight years. His ex-wife left for a Raleigh real estate developer right after their 20th anniversary, and he’d talked himself into the idea that chasing connection at his age was just asking to get his ribs kicked in again. He stuck to shop talk, solo red drum trips at dawn, and the weekly fish fry at the local bait and tackle, where he only spoke to people about line weight or upcoming regulation changes. He was stubborn to a fault, that was his flaw—once he made up his mind about something, he’d dig his heels in so hard he’d wear a rut in the dirt before he’d budge.
He was leaning against the fryer stand last Saturday, holding a grease-stained paper plate stacked with hushpuppies and fried catfish, when her shoulder brushed his. He smelled coconut sunscreen and pine before he turned around, and when he did, he blinked. It was Elara Voss, Jimmie’s little sister, the kid who used to follow them around the marina begging for scrap line to make friendship bracelets when she was 12. She’d moved to Oregon for forestry school 27 years prior, and he hadn’t seen her since. She was 49 now, her dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, a smudge of pine sap on her jaw, her park ranger uniform rolled up to the elbows to show forearms crisscrossed with thin scars from trail work. She reached past him for a jar of lemon wedges, and her hip pressed to his for half a second longer than was strictly necessary.
“Rafe Marquez,” she said, grinning, and her voice was still that rough, scratchy lilt he remembered, like she’d spent too many years yelling over wind and waves. “You still make those stupid little rainbow rods for kids? I still have the one you made me when I was 13, hanging above my fireplace.”
He fumbled a hushpuppy, and it clattered to the gravel. He felt his ears burn, half from embarrassment, half from the fact that he was noticing how the sunset hit the silver in her hair, how her work boots were caked with the same red clay he tracked into his shop every time he went out to cut blanks for rod handles. He told himself he was being an idiot. This was Jimmie’s little sister. Off limits. Had been since they were kids. He should make small talk, ask how her mom was, then go back to his pickup and eat his catfish alone like he always did.
But she didn’t let him leave. She grabbed a plate of her own, followed him over to his beat-up 2008 Ford F-150, and leaned against the tailgate right next to him, so close their knees knocked when she shifted her weight. She told him she’d taken the head park ranger job at the coastal reserve 10 miles down the road, that she was sick of Oregon rain, that Jimmie had been bugging her to move back for years. She asked about his shop, asked if he still fished for tarpon every June, and when he nodded, she leaned in, and her hand brushed his wrist when she pointed to a great blue heron gliding over the inlet behind them. Her palm was calloused at the fingertips from chopping brush, but soft along the curve, and he felt a jolt go up his arm that he hadn’t felt in close to a decade.
He fought it, at first. Made a dumb joke about Jimmie kicking his ass if he caught them hanging out alone, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, same as when she was a kid. “Jimmie’s the one who told me to come find you tonight,” she said, and her voice was quieter now, no more teasing. “Said you’ve been holed up by yourself long enough. Said you’d never make the first move, so I had to.”
The crowd around the fish fry started thinning out as dusk settled, fireflies flickering in the marsh grass on the other side of the parking lot, the sound of the fryer dying down, replaced by crickets and the faint lap of waves against the nearby dock. Rafe’s head was spinning. He’d spent seven years convincing himself he was better off alone, that any kind of desire at his age was just a stupid, messy risk not worth taking, that he’d only end up hurt again. But Elara was looking at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking, her dark eyes holding his for three full beats, no look away, no awkward smile, just that same quiet, sure grin.
“You wanna walk down to the dock?” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “I got the new tarpon rod I just finished in the bed of the truck. I can show you the grip I carved out of reclaimed cedar.”
She nodded, pushed off the tailgate, and when he grabbed the rod from the back, her hand brushed his again when she reached out to run her finger along the cedar grip. The wood was still warm from sitting in the sun in his truck bed, and her skin was cool from the ocean breeze. They walked down the wooden dock, the boards creaking under their boots, and when they got to the end, he stood behind her to adjust her grip on the rod, his hands covering hers for a slow five seconds, his chest almost pressed to her back. He could smell that pine and coconut sunscreen again, hear her breath catch a little when his thumb brushed the back of her hand.
She turned her head to look up at him, their faces only inches apart, and he could taste the sweet tea she’d been drinking on her breath when she spoke, soft enough that only he could hear it. “I had a crush on you when I was 16,” she said. “Never said anything. You were married, and I was just the annoying kid sister, right?”
He didn’t answer. He leaned down and kissed her, slow, no rush, the salt wind tangling in their hair, the waves lapping at the pilings under the dock. When they pulled back, she laughed, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and told him she’d bring the cold IPAs if he brought the rods tomorrow at dawn. He tucked the rod under his arm, already mentally packing his tackle box before she even pulled out of the parking lot.
