Javi Mendez is 62, spent 31 years coaching high school offensive linemen outside Tampa before he retired to run the tiny bait and tackle shop he inherited from his dad. He’s stubborn to a fault, spent four years turning down every neighborhood invite after his wife Maria passed, until his 16-year-old granddaughter Lila cornered him on his porch two days before the 4th of July, threatened to tell her entire cross country team he still slept with the frayed stuffed gator Maria got him for their 25th anniversary if he skipped the block party. He caved, showed up in his faded 2019 Gators coaching hoodie, a cold Bud Light in a paper koozie, and leaned against the splintered pine picnic table at the edge of the crowd, avoiding small talk while he waited for Lila’s peach pie to get judged.
The air smelled like hickory smoke from the brisket grill, coconut sunscreen, and the faint briny tang of the bay two blocks over. Kids screamed as they chased each other with water guns, a guy down the street blared Tom Petty from a beat up Bluetooth speaker, and Javi was halfway considering bailing early when someone tripped over a kid’s neon pink bike tire at his feet. A hip bumped his hard, a warm hand fisted in the sleeve of his hoodie to steady herself, and when he looked down, it was Lena Carter, the travel nurse who’d moved into the blue bungalow three doors down three months prior. He’d only ever waved at her from his truck before, when he was hauling his 17-foot fishing boat to the ramp on Saturdays.
She smelled like vanilla lip balm and the pecan pie she’d brought, her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed and apologized, her hand lingering on his bicep for three full seconds too long before she pulled it away, like she’d forgotten it was there. She held out a paper plate with a brisket slider, the bun glistening with rendered fat, and said she’d been meaning to stop by his shop for weeks, wanted to learn to fish for redfish like her dad used to take her to do before he died. Javi took the slider, bit into it, the spice from the dry rub stinging the tip of his tongue just right, and teased her that most newbies bailed after they hooked themselves in the thumb their first time out. She sat down on the bench next to him, close enough that their knees brushed when she shifted to cross her legs, and leaned in, her shoulder pressing to his for half a second, to say she had a high pain tolerance, worked ER shifts three nights a week, had pulled broken glass out of her own forearm once without numbing it.
He felt off kilter, a flutter low in his stomach he hadn’t felt since he was 17 and asked Maria to prom. Half of him felt guilty, like he was doing something wrong, like Maria was watching him from the porch and shaking her head. The other half couldn’t stop staring at the freckles across her nose, the small scar on her left knuckle from a needle stick at work, the way she tucked a strand of gray-streaked auburn hair behind her ear when she laughed at his dumb story about the lineman who once tried to use a fishing hook as a toothpick and had to get it removed at the ER.
The first firework went off with a loud pop, painting the sky over the bay bright red, and everyone turned to look. A group of kids ran between them, and Lena stumbled closer, wrapping her arm around his forearm to keep from falling, her soft cashmere sweater pressing into his bare skin where his hoodie sleeve had ridden up. She didn’t pull away when the kids were gone, just leaned her shoulder against his, and when he glanced down at her, she wasn’t watching the fireworks, she was watching him. She said she’d been sitting on her porch every Saturday for a month, watching him fix his boat in his driveway, had thought he looked like the kind of guy who’d be a patient teacher, even if he looked grumpy half the time.
Javi hesitated for a beat, thought about the photo of Maria taped to his fridge, the note she’d left him the week before she died that said don’t you dare mope around this house like a lost dog once I’m gone, go fishing, eat bad takeout, find someone who laughs at your terrible jokes. He didn’t pull his arm away. He told her he had an empty spot on his boat next Saturday, kept extra rods in the bed of his truck, had a whole jar of extra hooks if she did manage to stick herself. She smiled, the corner of her mouth tugging up higher on one side, and squeezed his arm.
Lila came running over a second later, yelling so loud the people two tables over turned to look, holding up a crumpled blue ribbon for first place in the pie contest. Lena cheered, let go of his arm for half a second to clap, then slipped her hand into his, her palm soft but calloused at the fingertips from holding suture needles, gave it a quick, secret squeeze before any of the neighbors walking over to congratulate Lila could see. Javi’s chest felt light, like the weight he’d been carrying around for four years had loosened just a little. He lifted his beer to Lila, his thumb brushing the back of Lena’s hand, and didn’t let go even when the HOA president stopped to clap him on the back and say he was glad he’d finally showed up.
