Rafe Marquez, 52, makes custom fishing rods for a living out of a cinder block garage turned workshop in Murrells Inlet, South Carolina. He’s got a scar running the length of his left forearm from a circular saw accident three years back, and a rule he’s stuck to rigidly since his wife left him for a Charlotte real estate agent eight years prior: no romantic entanglements, no exceptions. He’d skipped the last two local seafood festivals to avoid running into his ex’s extended family, but his buddy had begged him to come help judge the oyster shucking contest, and he’d caved. The sun sat low and golden over the marsh, sticky salt clinging to the back of his neck, the twang of a bluegrass band drifting over the crowd from the main stage. He was halfway through his second IPA, wiping a smudge of cocktail sauce off his work jeans, when he heard her voice.
Lila. His ex-wife’s younger cousin, the one he’d only seen a handful of times at family holidays back when he was married, the one he’d spent three years quietly, guiltily crushing on before she moved to Alaska for a wildlife biology job and fell off everyone’s radar. She was 47 now, he realized, the faint laugh lines around her hazel eyes deeper than he remembered, sun streaks bleached into her dark brown hair, a faded Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center hoodie slung over her shoulders. She stepped close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and the fried shrimp she’d just eaten, her shoulder brushing his when she leaned in to yell over the music. He froze for half a second, half ready to make an excuse and bolt, half unable to look away from the gap between her front teeth that he’d always found weirdly charming.
She said she was in town for three weeks to help her mom recover from a total knee replacement, had spotted him from across the beer tent and couldn’t believe he was still here, still building rods, still wearing that beat-up leather tool belt she’d gotten him for Christmas 13 years prior. She grabbed his beer out of his hand before he could protest, took a long sip, and wiped her mouth on the back of her wrist, her fingers brushing his when she handed it back. The logical part of his brain screamed that this was a terrible idea, that his ex would raise hell if she found out they were even talking, that he was too set in his grumpy, solitary routine to let anyone in anyway. But when she nudged his ribs and teased him about the time he’d gotten so drunk at her sister’s 30th birthday party he’d tried to grill a flip flop, he laughed so hard he snort-laughed, a sound he hadn’t made in years.
They wandered over to an empty picnic table off the edge of the crowd, and he listened for two hours while she told stories about tracking grizzly bears in the Alaskan bush, about the time a moose broke into her cabin and ate half her supply of peanut butter cups, about how she’d gotten sick of the snow and was thinking about moving back south for good. When he tripped over a cooler strap walking to get them another round of beers, she caught his elbow to steady him, her hand lingering on his forearm for three full beats before she pulled away. He told her about the custom rod he was building for a kid with cerebral palsy, about the 12-pound redfish he’d caught the weekend prior, about how he’d stopped going to family dinners after the divorce because they all felt too awkward. She nodded like she got it, no pity, no awkward platitudes, just said his ex had always been an idiot for leaving someone who cared that much about the things that mattered.
The sun started to dip below the marsh grass, painting the sky pink and tangerine, when she leaned in, her knee brushing his under the table, and asked if he wanted to take his boat out to watch the sunset. He hesitated for two full seconds, every alarm in his head blaring that this was crossing a line he’d sworn he’d never cross, that the guilt of wanting his ex’s cousin would eat him alive if he said yes. Then he looked at her, at the way the golden light hit her face, at the way she was biting her lip like she was nervous he’d say no, and he found himself saying yes before he could talk himself out of it.
The ride out to his favorite anchorage near the edge of the inlet was quiet, the only sounds the low hum of the outboard motor and the slap of waves against the hull. When he cut the engine, she stood next to him at the bow, leaning her shoulder against his, and pointed at a flock of herons flying low over the marsh. She said she’d always thought he’d picked the wrong sister, that she’d had a crush on him since she was 19 and he’d helped her fix her broken bike at that same family Christmas, that she’d never said anything because he was married. He froze for a beat, then wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, the salt wind tangling her hair in his face. There was no guilt, no second guessing, just the warm press of her body against his, the faint taste of IPA and shrimp on her lips when he kissed her, the quiet squawk of seagulls off in the distance.
They stayed out until the first stars pricked the dark blue sky, until the air turned cool enough that he gave her his worn flannel shirt to wrap around her shoulders. He drove her back to her mom’s small ranch house on the edge of town, walked her up to the porch, and she kissed him again before she went inside, told him she’d be by his workshop at 10 a.m. the next day, no excuses. He drove home with the windows down, the salt wind blowing through his hair, the empty passenger seat still smelling like her coconut sunscreen. He fumbled with his garage door opener when he pulled in, already mentally rearranging his work schedule to clear the next three weeks entirely.
