Manny Rocha, 62, retired propane delivery driver with hands crisscrossed with old frostbite scars and a stubborn streak wide enough to block the Columbia River, only showed up to the town summer street fair because his 78-year-old neighbor begged him to haul her 42-pound prize pumpkin to the produce contest booth. He’d skipped every fair, potluck, and community event for 40 years to avoid running into anyone connected to Jake Tatum, the guy who stole the custom surfboard Manny shaped himself senior year of high school. Widowed eight years, with two grown sons in Phoenix who only called on holidays, he was comfortable in his quiet routine: wake at 6 a.m. to surf the cove behind his trailer, spend the afternoon shaping boards for local teens who couldn’t afford shop prices, volunteer at the food bank twice a week. No surprises, no old grudges poking holes in his peace.
He was halfway through a powdered sugar-dusted funnel cake, the bluegrass band on the main stage wailing a cover of a Johnny Cash song he’d loved since he was 17, when he turned too fast to avoid a runaway toddler in a cowboy hat and slammed right into a woman holding a mason jar of lemonade. The lemonade sloshed over the rim, soaking a splotch on his faded Quiksilver flannel, and he started to stammer an apology before he looked up and recognized her. Lila Marquez. Jake Tatum’s ex-wife.
She was 58, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of dill brine on her left cheek from the pickle booth she ran every year. She smelled like coconut sunscreen and garlic dill, and when she laughed at his flustered apology, her voice was low and rough, like she smoked half a pack of menthols a day on her back porch. He tensed up, ready to mumble a quick excuse and bolt, but she didn’t step back. She was inches away, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, and she reached up to brush a dollop of powdered sugar off his jaw with her thumb, the callus on the tip of her finger catching on his stubble.
“Easy there, Rocha,” she said, grinning. “I know you’ve got a reputation for holding grudges, but I promise I won’t tell my ex you dented my lemonade.”
He froze. He’d not talked to Lila since high school, when he’d seen her at a party with Jake, her knee propped on the hood of his beat-up Camaro, laughing at some stupid joke. He’d thought she was the coolest girl in town back then, the kind who raced dirt bikes on the weekends and skipped study hall to go surfing, but he’d never said two words to her. Jake was the star quarterback, Manny was the quiet kid who fixed people’s furnaces for extra cash, and they’d hated each other since Jake tripped him in the cafeteria in 10th grade.
She must have seen the tension in his shoulders, because she nodded to the empty folding chair next to her pickle booth. “C’mon. I’ll give you a free jar of spicy dill to make up for your flannel. And I got something else you’ve been missing for 40 years.”
He hesitated, that old, stupid grudge flaring in his chest, but then she tilted her head, her braid slipping over one shoulder, and he realized he was being an idiot. Jake had left her in 1992, run off to Reno with a waitress from the diner, and Manny hadn’t seen the guy in 20 years. There was no reason to avoid her. He sat.
They talked for an hour, their elbows brushing every time she reached for a jar to hand to a customer, the noise of the fair fading into the background. She told him she’d found his old surfboard in the attic of the house they’d shared when they split, the custom wave he’d carved into the nose still perfect, the foam still firm. She’d kept it all these years, she said, because she’d watched him shape it after school in his dad’s garage, knew how many hours he’d put into it, and she couldn’t stand the thought of Jake selling it for beer money like he did most of their other stuff. She’d been meaning to track him down and give it back, she said, but she’d been nervous he’d slam the door in her face because of the old feud.
The sun started to dip low, painting the sky pink over the ocean, when she packed up the last of her pickle crates and asked him if he wanted to follow her back to her small bungalow a few blocks away to get the board. She had cold IPAs in the fridge, she said, and her back porch had the best sunset view in town. He thought about saying no, about going home to his empty trailer and the frozen burrito he had planned for dinner, but then she slipped her hand into his to pull him up out of the chair, her palm warm and rough against his, and he agreed.
He carried her crate of leftover pickles for her, their arms brushing the whole walk back, and when they crossed the busy street by the pier, she linked her arm through his, leaning into his side a little to avoid a group of teens on bikes. Her house smelled like cinnamon and pickles, and when she pulled the surfboard out of the attic, he almost cried. It was exactly how he remembered it, the blue paint he’d mixed himself still bright, the little scratch on the tail from when he’d wiped out at Oswald West State Park still there.
He carried it out to her back porch, setting it against the railing, and she handed him a cold IPA, sitting down next to him on the old wooden bench. Their shoulders pressed together, warm even in the cool coastal breeze, and she told him she’d been surfing the same cove as him for the last six months, she’d seen him out there early in the morning, but she’d never said hi. When she rests her hand on his knee, warm through the frayed denim of his work pants, he doesn’t move away.
