Javi Mendez, 53, made custom fishing rods for a living, his garage workshop strung with spools of neon line and hand-carved wooden grips worn smooth from 17 years of sanding. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he’d hidden from every local community event since his wife packed her car and drove to Nashville eight years prior, convinced small town gatherings only served up forced small talk and nosy questions about his love life. He’d only showed up to the St. Simons Island fire department chili cookoff that October because his childhood buddy, now the fire chief, had begged him to enter his award-winning smoked brisket chili, threatening to stop referring charter captains to his shop if he bailed.
He’d grabbed a plastic plate heaped with his own chili and a cold IPA, planning to slip out before any of the HOA ladies could corner him, when his knuckles brushed someone else’s reaching for the last honey butter cornbread muffin on the folding table. The jolt ran up his arm before he could process it, sharp and warm, and he pulled his hand back like he’d touched a hot grill. The woman on the other side of the table laughed, low and throaty, no edge of mockery in it, and nodded at the muffin. “You can have it. I’ve already eaten three, and I’m pretty sure the junior firefighters are judging me.”
Javi recognized her immediately. She was Lena, the new part-time librarian who’d moved to the island three months prior, and the town gossip mill had chewed her up and spit her out before she’d even unpacked her boxes. Word was she’d left a 20 year marriage to a prominent Savannah lawyer, had an octopus tattoo curling around her left wrist, and refused to join the church women’s book club because “they only read books about women leaving their small towns to bake bread in France, and I already did the small town part.” Javi had told himself a hundred times to stay far away from anyone the town had labeled trouble, that he didn’t need the drama messing up his quiet routine of sanding rod grips and fishing at dawn alone.
He held eye contact for two beats longer than he meant to, the faint orange glow from the tent’s string lights catching the gold flecks in her brown eyes, and he pushed the muffin toward her instead of taking it. “I don’t need it. My chili’s got enough brisket to keep me full until tomorrow.” He noticed her perfume first, sharp orange blossom mixed with cedar, nothing like the heavy floral stuff his ex-wife used to wear, and when she leaned a little closer to hear him over the roar of the crowd and the distant siren test the fire department was running, he didn’t step back. Her jeans were splattered with mud at the cuffs, her navy nail polish chipped at the edges, and when she pushed a strand of gray-streaked dark hair behind her ear, he caught the flash of that octopus tattoo, inked bright purple at the tentacles.
She told him she’d been meaning to stop by his shop for weeks, that she needed a custom fly rod heavy enough to haul in sheepshead off the north jetty, but had been nervous to drop in unannounced when all the reviews for his shop said he hated drop-ins. Javi snorted, surprised anyone even paid attention to the reviews, and shifted his weight so his shoulder was almost touching hers. “I only hate drop-ins who want to talk about how they caught a 12 pound bass once and need a rod to match their ego. You’re fine.”
When she asked him if he wanted to walk down to the public dock to eat their plates away from the crowd, he almost said no. Almost told her he had a stack of rod grips to sand when he got home, that he didn’t stay out past 7 on weeknights. But she tilted her head, grinning like she already knew he was going to say yes, and teased, “Coward?” and the words were out of his mouth before he could overthink it.
The gravel crunched under their work boots as they walked, the October air crisp enough that Javi could see his breath when he exhaled, the sunset painting the marsh pink and orange behind them. They leaned against the same weathered wooden piling when they got to the end of the dock, their shoulders pressing together now, no awkward space between them, and she told him about her ex-husband, who’d forbidden her from fishing because he thought it was “unladylike,” who’d tried to make her dye her gray hair and get rid of her tattoo. Javi told her about his ex-wife, who’d left because she got tired of living in a town where the most exciting thing that happened was the annual chili cookoff, who’d said he cared more about his fishing rods than he did about her.
He didn’t feel the usual urge to cut the conversation short, to make an excuse and go home to his empty house. When she finished her muffin, she wiped crumbs off her jeans with the back of her hand, and reached out to trace the faint scar on his forearm he’d gotten when a marlin jerked a rod out of his hands 10 years prior. “I can bring my fishing log by your shop tomorrow,” she said, her fingers lingering on his skin for a beat longer than necessary, “if you’re not too busy avoiding drop-ins.”
Javi nodded, and when she leaned up to kiss his cheek, the faint citrus of her perfume filling his nose, he didn’t flinch. He watched her walk back up the dock toward her beat up Subaru, her boots kicking up little piles of gravel as she went, and pulled his phone out to delete the reminder he’d set to sand rod grips the next morning.
