Arjun Mehta, 62, retired FAA air traffic controller, moved to Flagler Beach three years prior with nothing but a duffel of clothes and a crate of vintage drone cameras he’d collected for a decade. He’d sold his suburban Atlanta home the second his divorce was finalized after 22 years of marriage, his ex-wife having left him for a real estate agent 19 years her junior, and he’d spent the years since avoiding casual connection like it was a summer thunderstorm he could outrun. His only regular outing was weekly trivia at The Salty Mermaid, where he sat alone at the far end of the bar, drank cheap domestic beer, and rarely spoke to anyone but the bartender.
That Tuesday, the bartender Jax slapped a trivia sheet down in front of him and jerked his chin toward a high top by the open garage door. “New rule, no solo teams this week. You’re paired with Margot. She’s already got the first round of tots ordered.” Arjun sighed, dragged his stool across the sticky linoleum, and slid into the seat across from her. She was 58, he’d guess, dark blonde hair streaked with silver braided loose down her back, worn cutoff shorts and a faded University of Miami hoodie, calloused hands wrapped around a cold pilsner. She lifted the beer in a wordless cheers, and he nodded back, already planning his escape after the first round.
The first 10 minutes were quiet, him only piping up to answer aviation and 80s rock questions, her laughing loud at the host’s terrible dad jokes, teasing him when he missed a question about 2000s reality TV so badly he guessed the wrong network. She shifted to grab the plate of loaded tots the server dropped off, and her bare knee brushed his under the table, warm and solid. She didn’t apologize, just grinned and said “These tables are criminal for anyone over 5’7”, sorry.” He felt a jolt run up his spine, the kind he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager fumbling with a girl’s seatbelt at a drive-in, and he shook his head like he could shake the feeling loose, angry at himself for even reacting.
The bar got louder as the night went on, the crowd yelling wrong answers at the host, a Jimmy Buffett cover band setting up in the corner. She leaned in so close he could smell coconut shampoo and salt from her morning dive, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered the answer to a coral reef restoration question. He wrote it down, his hand shaking a little, and when he pulled back he caught her staring, hazel eyes flecked with silver, holding his gaze two beats longer than casual politeness called for. She told him she taught marine biology part-time at the local community college, had lost her husband to a sudden heart attack three years prior, spent every weekend volunteering on reef restoration dives. He told her about the drones, how he filmed coastal erosion footage for the county in his free time, and he didn’t even realize he was talking for 10 minutes straight until she leaned in further, like she actually cared what he had to say.
He almost left twice. Once when the host announced the grand prize, once when she reached for the trivia sheet at the same time he did, her forearm grazing his, the callus on her wrist from her dive knife catching on the sleeve of his flannel. Every part of him screamed to go home, to lock the door, to not risk getting his chest ripped open again, to stop acting like a stupid kid who thought a pretty smile meant anything real. But every time he opened his mouth to make an excuse, she laughed at a dumb joke he made, or handed him another cold beer, and he stayed.
They won by three points. The host handed them a voucher for a free sunset catamaran cruise, valid the next evening, and Margot whooped, clapping him on the back so hard he snorted into his beer. He opened his mouth to say he had plans, that he was fixing a 2012 DJI Phantom he’d picked up at a garage sale, but he looked at her, cheeks pink from the beer, a piece of braid falling in her face, and the words died in his throat. “I’m free tomorrow if you are,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. She blinked, then grinned so wide the corners of her eyes crinkled. “Pick me up at 5. I’ll bring mango seltzer and an extra wetsuit if you want to jump in after dark.”
She turned to face him, their faces inches apart, and he could taste the mango seltzer on her breath before he even leaned in. He kissed her slow, no hurry, her hand coming up to tangle in the gray hair at the nape of his neck, and for the first time in 20 years, he didn’t feel the urge to pull away. They pulled back after a minute, and she laughed, soft and warm, swatting his chest playfully. “Took you long enough. I thought you were gonna make me ask.”
The boat turned, heading back toward the dock, the first star of the evening pricking through the dimming lavender sky. He slipped his calloused hand into hers, lacing their fingers together, and didn’t let go.
