Manny Ruiz, 58, spent 31 years as an air traffic controller in Fort Lauderdale before retiring to Pensacola to run a one-man small boat engine repair shop out of three ramshackle dock slips he’d paid off in cash three years prior. His biggest flaw, one he’d never admit out loud, was that he wrote people off at the first red flag, no do-overs, no second chances. It’s why he’d spent seven years single after his wife left for a golf pro in Naples, why he avoided most neighborhood events, why he’d fired off three scathing, 10-paragraph emails to the county parks department the second he heard about the proposed 40% dock fee hike to cover post-Hurricane Idalia repairs. He only showed up to the waterfront taco fundraiser because his best friend’s 16-year-old kid was manning the grill, and Manny owed the kid a favor for helping him haul a 200hp outboard up a rickety ramp the week before.
He leaned against a splintered piling, cold beer in a koozie in one hand, work boots caked in salt and grease, the hem of his Carhartt jacket stiff with old engine oil. He’d been scowling for 20 minutes straight watching the new parks director, Lila Marlow, work the crowd: mid-50s, sun-streaked brown hair pulled back in a messy braid, linen button-down unbuttoned at the collar, left wrist sporting a faded pelican tattoo identical to the one his daughter had gotten the summer she graduated high school before moving to Portland. He’d only seen her headshot on the county website before, had pegged her as another out-of-touch bureaucrat who’d never held a wrench in her life, who’d happily price out every small operator on the waterfront to pad the county’s budget for fancy new beach bathrooms for tourists.
She cut through the crowd toward the beer cooler next to him, tripped over a loose dock board, and grabbed his bicep hard to steady herself before she face-planted into a bucket of ice. Her palm was warm through the thin fabric of his jacket, she smelled like coconut sunscreen and lime seltzer, and when she laughed to play off the stumble, her voice was rougher than he expected, like she spent half her time yelling over wind and boat motors. “Sorry about that,” she said, brushing a strand of hair off her face, her eyes landing on the name tag stitched to his jacket pocket. “Manny Ruiz. The guy who wrote me three very detailed emails about how my fee hike would put him out of business before I even had a chance to read the consultant’s proposal.”
The scowl slipped off his face before he could stop it. He’d spent two weeks fuming about the hike, running numbers over and over again, figuring he’d have to sell his shop and move into a tiny apartment by the end of the year if it passed. He shifted his weight, his boot knocking against hers by accident, and when he looked down he saw she was wearing scuffed work boots too, not the fancy loafers he’d pictured. “You wearing steel toes to a fundraiser?” he said, teasing before he thought better of it. She laughed, kicking his boot lightly with hers. “Had to walk the damaged piers this morning. Nails sticking up everywhere. Figured it was better than stepping on a rusty spike and getting a tetanus shot mid-speech.”
They stood there for 15 minutes, talking over the band, the salt wind stinging their cheeks, the smell of grilled pork and cilantro drifting over from the taco stand. She told him she grew up in a fishing family in Apalachicola, her dad ran a shrimp boat, she’d spent 10 years working for the National Park Service before taking the county job. He told her about the air traffic control job, the two mid-air collisions he’d been powerless to stop early in his career, the reason he’d retired early, the way working on boat engines felt like the only thing that quieted the constant buzz of hypervigilance in his head. He didn’t tell anyone that stuff, not even his best friend, but it slipped out easy, like he’d known her for years.
When the band took a break, she nodded toward the far end of the pier, where the string lights were strung low and no one else was hanging around. “Wanna walk down there? I wanna show you the part of the pier we’re fixing first, the section that the storm washed half away. A bunch of local kids jump off it in the summer.” He nodded, and when she started walking, she slipped her hand into his, her palm soft but calloused at the fingertips from years of working with her hands, and he didn’t pull away. Halfway down the pier, she stopped, turned to face him, and reached up to wipe a smudge of engine grease off his jaw, her thumb lingering on the rough stubble of his cheek for a beat longer than necessary.
He’d spent seven years convincing himself he didn’t want anyone new in his life, that he was better off alone, no surprises, no one to let him down. For half a second, he almost pulled back, almost made an excuse to leave, but then she smiled, the corner of her mouth tugging up to the left, and he realized he hadn’t felt this light in longer than he could remember. He laced his fingers through hers, squeezed her hand once, and nodded back toward the taco stand. “C’mon. I owe you a taco. Extra cilantro, on me. You can tell me more about that revised fee proposal on the way.” She laughed, let him lead her back down the pier, her hand warm in his the whole walk.
