Manny Espinoza, 52, has built custom fly rods for 18 years out of a cinder block converted garage outside Missoula, Montana, his fingers permanently stained with wood stain and fly tying cement, his left ear crinkled at the top from a run-in with a grizzly cub on a backcountry trip back in 2019. His biggest flaw, the one his niece nags him about every Sunday dinner, is that he’s hidden away from the world since his wife Ellen passed from breast cancer three years prior, turning down every invite to town events, avoiding the local diner even for his usual meatloaf special because too many strangers shoot him that sad, pitying little head tilt when they recognize his name. He only agreed to show up to the annual downtown summer street fair because his 16-year-old niece begged him to man her baked good stand for 20 minutes while she ran to the port-a-potty, and he’s never been able to say no to that kid.
He’s leaning against the railing of the fried Oreo stand 10 minutes later, sipping a frosty root beer he grabbed as a reward, when the collision happens. Soft, sun-warmed fabric presses into his bare forearm, a half-empty lemonade sloshing just enough to send a single cold drop splattering onto his faded work jeans, and a laugh that he’s been replaying in his head for three weeks rings out right next to his ear. It’s Clara Bennett, the 38-year-old new US Forest Service ranger who’s been stopping by his shop every other week to pick up custom rods for the park’s youth fly fishing program. He’s been actively avoiding her for months, half terrified that the way he stares at the freckles across her nose when she talks about backcountry trout streams is going to make him look like the creepy old widower everyone already half assumes he is, half guilty that he even feels a flicker of something for anyone who isn’t Ellen.
She leans in just a hair, close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and pine sap on her uniform, her hand resting light on his bicep for two full beats longer than necessary when she apologizes. “I’ve been trying to catch you for days,” she says, holding out a tiny size 18 elk hair caddis fly between her thumb and forefinger, the one he dropped when he delivered the last batch of rods to the ranger station two weeks prior. “You left this by the loading dock. Figured you’d want it back, you mumbled something about it being your lucky dry fly when you showed up.” He reaches out to take it, his calloused, stain-streaked finger brushing hers, and he yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, his face heating up so fast he swears the people walking past can see it. He mumbles a thanks, makes a half-assed excuse about needing to get back to the shop, already turning to walk down the sidewalk before he even finishes the sentence.
She follows him, her heavy leather work boots thudding on the cracked asphalt, the fair’s country cover band fading into the background as they get further from the crowds. “You know you don’t have to run from me, right?” she says, falling into step next to him, her shoulder brushing his every few steps. “I’m not some kid that doesn’t know what she’s getting into. I know Ellen was your whole world. I’m not asking to replace her. I’m asking if you want to get a beer sometime, listen to that terrible 90s country you have blaring in your shop every time I stop by, talk about trout for an hour or two. No pressure. No pity. Just… two people who like being outside more than they like talking to strangers.”
He stops short at the crosswalk, his brain short circuiting so bad he almost steps out in front of a group of teens bombing the hill on beat-up mountain bikes. She grabs his wrist hard, yanking him back onto the curb, and they stumble a little, their chests almost pressing together for half a second. He can feel the heat coming off her skin, can hear her breath catch just a little, and for the first time in three years, he doesn’t feel that sharp, twisting guilt in his chest when he looks at someone who isn’t Ellen. He doesn’t feel like he’s betraying her. He just feels… awake.
He nods, before he can overthink it, jerking his chin toward the dive bar three blocks up, the one with the neon fish sign in the window, the jukebox that actually has all the old Alan Jackson and Patty Loveless tracks he loves. “They serve bison sliders on Tuesdays,” he says, his voice rougher than he expects it to be. “Best in town.” She grins, so wide the corners of her eyes crinkle, and slips her hand into his, calloused from months of clearing trail and tying flies, fitting against his like it was made to be there.
They slide into the back booth a minute later, she kicks her scuffed work boots up on the rail next to his, orders a cold IPA, he gets his usual old fashioned with extra bitters. The bartender, a guy he’s known since high school, shoots him a knowing wink when he drops the drinks off, and Manny doesn’t even bother flipping him off like he usually would when someone teases him about moving on. He taps his glass against hers, the cold condensation dripping onto his knuckle, and lets himself smile.
