Rico Marquez is 52, has run a custom fishing rod building shop out of his converted Beaufort garage for 18 years, and hasn’t set foot at the Carteret County Oyster Roast since his wife Ellen died three years prior. His flaw is stubbornness so thick it’s got its own layer of salt crust—he’d spent 36 months turning down invites, convinced the whole event was just an excuse for neighbors to gawk at the widower and ask him intrusive questions about when he’d “get back out there.” He only showed up this year because his old charter boat buddy Jimmie left a half-smoked cigar on his shop porch with a note scrawled in Sharpie: “If you don’t come I’m donating all your rare rod blanks to the high school fishing team.”
He’s propped against the rusted metal beer cooler when he spots her, flannel sleeves rolled up to show forearms crisscrossed with thin scratches from sanding fiberglass, calloused thumb rubbing the frayed edge of his jeans pocket. Lila. Ellen’s second cousin, the one who’d moved back to the county six months prior to run the public health department, the one Ellen used to tease was “too sharp to waste her time on our redneck family.” He’d only seen her once before, at the Food Lion back in July, and he’d ducked down the cereal aisle before she could wave.
She’s walking toward the cooler in a worn denim jacket and rubber boots, no fancy dress, hair pulled back in a loose braid, and the scent of jasmine perfume hits him before she’s even within arm’s reach, mixing with the briny tang of steamed oysters and pine smoke from the fire pit. They both reach for the last cold IPA at the same time, their knuckles brushing, and Rico yanks his hand back like he’s touched a hot stove. Guilt hits him square in the chest first, sharp as a fish hook, before the warm buzz of the contact settles under his skin.
Lila laughs, the sound bright enough to cut through the scratch of the bluegrass fiddle playing ten feet away, and grabs the beer, twisting the top off with a satisfying pop before holding it out to him. “I owe you one anyway. I’ve been trying to track you down for three weeks to ask about a custom rod for my dad’s 70th. He still talks about the inshore rod you built him for his retirement 10 years ago.”
She leans in when he answers, because a group of drunk teen boys yells as they carry a bucket of oysters past, and her upper arm presses against his bicep through the thin cotton of her long sleeve. He can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric, and he has to fight the urge to tilt his head down closer to hers, to breathe in that jasmine again. He rambles about rod blanks and guide placement, and she listens, nodding, asking questions that don’t feel like the empty small talk he’s grown used to. Every time someone squeezes past the narrow space by the cooler, she shifts closer, her hip brushing his, and he keeps waiting for the guilt to come back, for the voice in his head to yell that he’s betraying Ellen, that this is wrong, that people are staring. But the voice is quiet, for the first time in three years.
When she asks if he wants to walk down to the county dock to get away from the noise, he hesitates for half a second before he nods. The dock planks creak under their work boots, and the air has that sharp fall bite that makes your nose run a little, the sound of the band fading behind them as they get farther from the crowd, the dark water of the sound lapping soft against the pilings. She stops halfway down, leans against the weathered wooden railing, and turns to him, the glow of the distant string lights catching the gold flecks in her brown eyes.
“I know you’re beating yourself up for even letting yourself talk to me for more than two minutes,” she says, soft enough that only he can hear it, and Rico’s throat goes tight, because no one has said that out loud to him before, not even his sister, not even Jimmie. Everyone has tiptoed around his grief like it’s a live wire, like if they mention Ellen he’ll shatter. “Ellen told me once, two months before she got sick, that if you ever shut yourself off from the world after she was gone, she’d come back and haunt you so bad you’d never catch a redfish again. She’d be furious you’ve spent three years holed up in that shop, eating frozen dinners and talking to your dog more than actual people.”
She reaches out, her thumb brushing the thin, pale scar on his left knuckle, the one he got last March when he slipped with a utility knife while cutting a grip for a custom rod. “I saw you at the urgent care that day. Wanted to stop and say hi, but I could tell you were already planning to bolt before the nurse even handed you the band-aids.”
Rico doesn’t pull his hand away. He stares at her, at the way the wind is blowing a loose strand of hair across her face, at the chipped navy blue nail polish on her fingers, and for the first time since Ellen died, he doesn’t feel like he’s doing something wrong. He feels light, like he just reeled in a 40-pound red after an hour fight, like the weight he’s been carrying on his shoulders for three years just slid off a little.
“You want to come by the shop tomorrow?” he says, and his voice is a little rougher than he means it to be. “I’ve got a stack of saltwater blanks in the back that’d be perfect for your dad. We can stop at that taco stand on Highway 70 on the way, the one with the pickled habaneros Ellen used to love.”
Lila grins, and the smile lights up her whole face, and her thumb lingers on his knuckle for three more slow beats before she pulls her hand back. They stand there for another 20 minutes, not talking much, watching a great blue heron glide low across the water, the sound of crickets chirping from the marsh grass on the shore. When they turn to walk back to the roast, Rico’s hand brushes the small of her back once, light, like he’s testing the water, and she leans into the touch just enough that he can feel the shift of her weight against his palm.
