Manny Ruiz, 62, retired FAA air traffic controller, had not deviated from his Thursday night routine in three years. He left his cottage at 6:15 sharp, drove the two miles to Sharkey’s, slid into the same scuffed vinyl booth by the front window, ordered one plate of crispy catfish with hushpuppies and a 16-ounce draft of the local amber ale, and stayed until 8:45 before heading home to work on the 1978 Evinrude outboard he was restoring for a kid down the street. He’d perfected the rhythm after moving to the tiny Gulf Coast town from Fort Worth, fleeing the constant roar of jet engines and the ghost of his wife, who’d passed from breast cancer seven years prior. His biggest flaw, as the few people who’d tried to befriend him had noted, was that he refused to let anyone crack the shell he’d built around himself. He’d turned down fishing trips, cookouts, even a spot on the local volunteer fire department, convinced any new connection would only end in more loss.
The first crack showed the second Thursday in June. The bar was packed louder than usual, half the space taken over by a shrimpers’ association meeting, men in oil-stained overalls yelling about catch limits and rising fuel costs over pitchers of beer. He was halfway through his catfish when a shadow fell across his table, and he looked up to see the woman who’d moved into the cottage next door three days prior. He’d only waved at her twice, once when she was hauling a couch up her front steps, once when her tabby cat snuck through his fence and napped on his workbench. She was still in pale blue scrubs, her dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, a travel nurse, he’d guessed from the hospital lanyard around her neck. She nodded at the empty spot across from him, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and yelled over the noise that all the other tables were taken, if he didn’t mind the company.
He nodded, too surprised to say no. She slid into the booth, her denim-clad knee brushing his for half a second when she shifted to get comfortable, and he caught a whiff of coconut sunscreen mixed with the faint, sharp tang of antiseptic clinging to her scrubs. She flagged down the bartender, ordered a frozen margarita with extra salt, then turned back to him, leaning forward a little so he could hear her over the racket of the meeting. She introduced herself as Lila, apologized profusely for her cat’s antics the day before, said the little gremlin had snuck into his garage and knocked over a half-full can of 20W-50, left a black oil stain on his concrete floor. He laughed, a rough, unused sound, and told her it was fine, he’d spilled more oil on that floor than he could count, the cat was welcome any time.
They talked for an hour, the hum of the meeting fading into background noise. When she reached across the table to grab a handful of hushpuppies from his basket, her bare forearm brushed his, and he noticed the tiny, silvery scar wrapping around her left wrist, the faint freckles dusting her knuckles, the way her nail polish was chipped almost all the way off. She said the scar was from a pit bull that bit her when she was working an ER shift in Memphis, the nail polish was from a kid patient who’d painted them for her two days prior. He found himself leaning in too, his shoulder almost touching hers when a group of shrimpers cheered so loud the windows rattled. A stupid, quiet part of him felt disgusted with himself, like he was betraying his wife by enjoying the sound of Lila’s laugh, the warmth of her arm brushing his, the way she kept looking at him like he was more interesting than the loud group of men yelling across the bar. He’d spent seven years convincing himself he was better off alone, that any spark of desire was a waste of time, a risk he didn’t need to take.
Last call was announced at 8:45, right when he usually would have stood up to leave. Lila bit her lip, looked out the window at the full moon hanging low over the water, then turned back to him, her eyes bright. She said she didn’t feel like going home to an empty cottage and a cat that would just knock more stuff over, asked if he wanted to walk down to the public pier with her, watch the dolphins that came out to feed at high tide. He hesitated for two full seconds, the voice in his head yelling that he was being an idiot, that this would only end badly, before he said yes.
They walked across the potholed parking lot, the air thick with the smell of salt and fried onion rings from the food truck parked out front. When a car pulled out of a spot, headlights sweeping across the asphalt, Lila slipped her hand into his, said she was terrible at seeing potholes in the dark, didn’t want to twist her ankle. He didn’t pull away. Her hand was smaller than his, calloused at the fingertips from tying IVs, warm even through the cool night air. They leaned against the splintered wooden rail of the pier, watching a pod of dolphins arc through the dark water a hundred yards out, and she told him she’d lost her husband to a construction accident four years prior, that she took travel nursing assignments every six months because staying in one place too long made her feel like she was waiting for something bad to happen. He told her about the 30 years he’d spent staring at radar screens, guiding hundreds of planes a day to safety, how he’d retired the day after his wife’s final chemo appointment, how he’d moved to this town because he’d never lived anywhere where the loudest sound was the waves crashing instead of jet engines.
She turned to face him, her face lit soft silver by the moon, and leaned in, slow enough that he could have pulled away if he wanted. He didn’t. The kiss was soft, tentative at first, and he could taste the lime and tequila from her margarita, the salt from the rim sticking to her lips. When she pulled back, she laced her fingers through his again, smiled, and said she wanted to see the outboard motors he was working on tomorrow, if he was free. He nodded, his throat too tight to talk, and turned to lead her back down the pier toward his house, the sound of the waves crashing against the pilings fading behind them as they walked.
