Rico Marquez, 52, had been leaning against the dented aluminum beer cooler at the county fire department crawfish boil for 22 minutes, and he was already planning his escape. A custom fishing rod builder who worked out of his garage outside Brunswick, Georgia, he’d only shown up to drop off the inshore rod he’d donated for the raffle, but the fire chief had cornered him into buying three beer tickets and a plate of crawfish before he could slip back to his truck. He kept his left hand stuffed in the pocket of his faded work jeans most of the time, the worn gold wedding band on his finger pressing into his palm like a reminder he wasn’t supposed to be here having fun, not after Lena had been gone three years.
The air reeked of cayenne, boiled corn, and diesel fumes from the food truck parked at the edge of the lot, zydeco warbling from a beat-up bluetooth speaker propped on a folding table. Kids screamed as they chased each other with discarded crawfish claws, and a group of his old high school buddies waved him over to their table every five minutes, hooting like they knew something he didn’t. He was just about to chug the last of his IPA and bolt when she stepped up next to him, her shoulder brushing his sunburnt bicep before she even said hello.
It was Maeve Carter, the 38-year-old county park ranger who’d moved back to town six months prior to take over the marsh management post. He’d only spoken to her twice before, once when she’d stopped by his shop to ask about parking access for the trail behind his property, once at the hardware store when he’d helped her lift a bag of grass seed into her truck. He’d caught himself staring at her more than once when he saw her patrolling the marsh on her ATV, dark hair pulled back in a braid, sun streaked across her cheeks, and he’d hated himself for it every time. Gossip moved fast in this town, and the last thing he needed was people whispering that he was chasing a woman half his age before Lena’s headstone was even weathered.
She reached past him for a black cherry seltzer from the cooler, her forearm brushing his as she leaned in, and he caught the scent of cedar and coconut sunscreen on her skin, sharp and sweet under the cayenne fumes. “I was hoping I’d see you here,” she said, grinning, her front tooth slightly chipped where she’d fallen off a bike as a kid, he remembered Lena telling him that once. She propped her elbow on the cooler next to his, close enough that he could see the flecks of green in her brown eyes when she looked up at him, and he froze, his beer can halfway to his mouth.
He mumbled a greeting, already mentally kicking himself for sounding like a flustered teen. She laughed, a low, throaty sound that cut through the noise of the crowd, and held up a crumpled raffle ticket. “I bought 20 tickets for that rod you donated. My dad left me his old 1980s surf rod before he died, it’s cracked right above the handle, I’ve been too scared to bring it by your shop. Heard you don’t like strangers wasting your time.”
He relaxed a little at that, huffing a laugh. His reputation for being a hermit was well earned, he’d chased off three different out-of-town influencers who’d showed up to his shop asking for custom rods for TikTok content in the last year alone. “Only the annoying ones,” he said, and she laughed again, her knee brushing his when she shifted her weight. When she passed him a paper plate piled high with peeled crawfish tails a minute later, her fingers brushed his calloused ones, and he felt a jolt run up his arm that he hadn’t felt since the first time Lena had kissed him, senior year of high school.
He told himself he should leave, that half the town was already watching them, that it was wrong to feel this giddy talking to a woman who wasn’t Lena. But she was leaning in, asking him about the best spots to catch redfish in the marsh, and he found himself talking for 20 minutes straight, telling her stories about taking Lena out in his jon boat when they were first married, about the 12-pound red he’d caught last month that had snapped three of his test lines. He didn’t even notice when the raffle started until the fire chief called her name, and whooped when she held up her ticket, jumping up and down like a kid.
She walked over to him a minute later, holding the custom rod he’d built, the blue and silver wrap glinting in the late afternoon sun. “I told you I’d win it,” she said, grinning, and she ran a finger along the blank, slow, like she was testing the weight of it. “I’m taking the boat out to the north marsh Saturday morning. You gonna come with me? Show me how to use this thing right, and maybe take a look at my dad’s old rod while you’re at it?”
He hesitated, glancing over at his buddies, who were all pointing at him and hooting, and he twisted the wedding band on his left finger, the metal warm from being in his pocket. He remembered Lena talking to him a week before she died, holding his hand, telling him he didn’t have to be lonely forever, that she wanted him to go out, have fun, stop hiding in his garage. He took a breath, smiled, and nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be there. 6 a.m., don’t be late.”
She squeezed his wrist, her palm warm and calloused from working the trails, before she turned to walk over to the food bank table to help load up leftover crawfish. He stood there holding the empty beer can, the sun warm on his face, and for the first time in three years, he didn’t feel guilty for looking forward to something. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, typed her number into his contacts when she waved and held up a crumpled slip of paper with her digits scrawled on it, and tucked the paper into the breast pocket of his frayed work flannel.
