Ron Marquez, 62, retired Miami-Dade arson investigator, parked his beat-up Ford F150 outside the Gulf Breeze VFW just after 6pm, the smell of fried catfish and vinegar slaw already curling through the open truck window. He’d spent the day stripping rust off a 1972 Penn International reel he’d found at a garage sale, his knuckles still crusted with metal polish, and he’d been looking forward to his usual corner table, a cold draft beer, and zero small talk for two hours. The corner table was taken, though, occupied by a group of younger Coast Guard guys yelling about a fishing tournament, so the only empty seat left was across from Claire Hale, the part-time librarian he’d nodded at a dozen times around town, the one who always wore pressed linen blouses and cat-eye reading glasses and carried a canvas tote covered in cat stickers. He’d written her off months ago as the kind of woman who’d tsk at him for smoking a cigar on his front porch at 9am, who’d judge him for the stack of old true crime paperbacks stacked by his couch, so he’d never bothered saying more than a gruff hello.
He hesitated for ten seconds, then hauled his tray of catfish, hushpuppies, and a can of Yuengling over, nodding at the empty seat. “Mind if I crash here? All the other spots are taken.” She looked up from her book, a dog-eared copy of a Raymond Chandler novel, and smiled, the corner of her mouth crinkling in a way he hadn’t noticed before. “Not at all. I’ve been meaning to track you down, actually.” He sat down, his knee brushing hers under the table for half a second, and he jerked back like he’d touched a hot stove, convinced she’d be annoyed. She didn’t even mention it, just pushed a stack of hardcover books across the table, their spines worn thin. “We got these in the donation bin at the library last week. Old arson investigation manuals, from the 80s. The name on the inside was a guy you probably knew, Jake Tully? I figured you might want them, instead of us tossing them out.”
Ron’s chest went tight. Jake had been his partner for 12 years, until he died of a heart attack on a call in 2014. He picked up the top book, his fingers brushing hers where she still held the edge of the stack, and he felt the soft callus on the pad of her index finger, like she held a pen for hours every day. “Jake was my partner,” he said, quieter than he meant to. “Thanks. That’s… that’s real nice of you.” She waved it off, taking a bite of hushpuppy, crumbs sticking to her lower lip. “I heard you talk about him once, at the hardware store, when you were buying paint for your porch. Figured they’d mean more to you than to the thrift store we send leftover donations to.”
They talked for an hour straight, the noise of the VFW fading into the background. He told her about the weirdest case he’d ever worked, a guy who’d set his own shed on fire because his neighbor stole his prize show hog, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was embarrassed. He didn’t tease her for it, just grinned, and when she reached across the table to grab a napkin, her forearm brushed his again, this time neither of them pulled away. He’d spent the last eight years convinced any kind of casual connection after 60 was just asking for disappointment, that anyone who got close enough would leave, just like his ex-wife had when she ran off with a country club golf pro in 2015. He’d pushed away every woman who’d shown even a flicker of interest, written them all off as too prissy, too boring, too likely to leave. Sitting there, though, watching her talk about how she’d moved to town six months earlier to help her daughter through a messy divorce, how she’d never been fishing in her life, how she’d been dying to go out on the water to see the bioluminescence everyone talked about, that tight wall he’d built around himself felt like it was cracking.
He didn’t even think before he said it. “I got a 17-foot Whaler docked down at the public ramp. Bioluminescence is best right after the new moon, which is tomorrow. You wanna go?” She raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her mouth. “You gonna make me listen to that old 70s rock you blare on your porch every Saturday? And no stogies, I hate the smell of cigar smoke.” He laughed, leaning back in his chair, his knee brushing hers again under the table, this time on purpose. “No stogies. I’ll even spring for the frozen margaritas from the gas station on the way. Deal.” She held out her hand to shake, and he took it, her palm soft but firm, and he didn’t let go for a full three seconds, long enough to feel the small silver ring on her middle finger, the faint scratch of a scar on her wrist. “Deal.”
He picked her up the next night at 8, the sky streaked deep purple and orange as the sun set, a cooler of margaritas and a bag of hushpuppies she’d brought sitting in the passenger seat of his truck. They drove to the ramp, loaded the boat, and headed out past the no-wake zone, the air thick with salt and the distant sound of crickets from the shore. When they got out far enough that the shore lights faded, he cut the engine, and the water lit up bright neon blue the second the boat stopped rocking, every ripple glowing like someone had spilled a bucket of starlight. She leaned over the edge of the boat, her hand dipping into the water, and gasped, the blue glow lighting up her face, her glasses slipping down her nose. “Holy shit, that’s real. I thought everyone was exaggerating.”
Ron leaned against the throttle next to her, his shoulder pressed to hers, and when she lifted her hand out of the water, droplets of glowing blue water dripping off her fingers, she brushed her hand against his, lacing their fingers together without saying a word. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t panic, didn’t pull away like he’d done a hundred times before. He just squeezed her hand, the faint smell of coconut sunscreen from her wrist drifting up to him, watching as a school of fish darted under the hull, leaving a trail of bright blue light stretching behind them for ten feet.
