Ray Voss, 53, had spent the last eight years building custom fishing rods out of a converted garage behind his Outer Banks cottage, and avoiding all small-town community events like they carried a contagious rash. His only consistent personality flaw, if you asked the few people who knew him well enough to answer, was that he’d built walls so high around his life after his divorce he couldn’t even see over them himself. He’d turned down seven invites to the annual Ocracoke Oyster Roast before his oldest regular, a 72-year-old retired shrimper named Earl, showed up at his shop at 4 PM on roast day with a cold IPA and a threat to stop bringing him fresh shrimp for his bait tank if he didn’t come.
The air reeked of brine, garlic butter, and charcoal when he showed up, the crunch of oyster shells under work boots mixing with the twang of old George Strait cuts blaring from a portable speaker by the picnic tables. He planted himself against a cedar fence at the edge of the lot, sipping his beer, planning to stay exactly 45 minutes before bailing, when he saw her.
Lena Marquez. His ex-wife’s first cousin. He’d not seen her since the week his divorce was finalized, when she’d dropped off a box of his old tools at his new cottage and left before he could even offer her a soda. He’d harbored a stupid, quiet crush on her for the entire 12 years he was married, the kind he’d never dared admit to anyone, not even himself half the time, because it felt like a betrayal even when his marriage was already falling apart.
She spotted him before he could duck behind the fence. She walked over in cutoff jeans and a faded UNC hoodie, bare feet dusted with sand, and stopped so close he could smell coconut shampoo mixed with the steam coming off the tray of oysters she was carrying. “I thought that was you,” she yelled over the noise, and her shoulder brushed his when she leaned in to make sure he heard her. The contact sent a jolt up his spine he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking into his dad’s tackle box.
She held out a steamed oyster on a plastic fork, and her fingers brushed his palm when he took it. His grip fumbled a little, and she laughed, the sound bright enough to cut through the chatter around them. She held his gaze for three full beats longer than polite, the corner of her mouth tugging up like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. He was torn between stepping back and leaning in, the old, familiar guilt warring with the low, warm hum building in his chest that had nothing to do with the beer.
“You always did hate these things,” she said, nodding at his spot against the fence, and he blinked. He’d forgotten she’d paid that much attention back then. He’d always assumed she saw him as just her cousin’s boring, stuck-up husband, the guy who’d rather sand rod blanks for 12 hours a day than come to family cookouts.
She gestured over her shoulder toward the dock that jutted out into Pamlico Sound. “Wanna get away from all the noise?” He hesitated for half a second, thinking of the walls he’d built, the rule he’d made to never involve himself with anyone connected to his ex, then nodded.
The wooden planks creaked under their boots as they walked, the noise of the roast fading behind them, replaced by the soft lap of water against the dock pilings and the distant cry of seagulls. The moon was half full, painting silver streaks across the dark water, when they sat down on the edge of the dock, their legs dangling over the side. Her knee bumped his when she shifted to get comfortable, and neither of them moved away.
“I always thought you were too good for her, you know,” she said quietly, picking at a splinter in the dock. He froze. He’d never heard anyone say that out loud, not even his own mother, who’d loved his ex. “I noticed you watching me back then,” she added, turning to look at him, her eyes dark in the moonlight. “I never said anything. You were married.”
He exhaled the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “I thought about you more than I should have,” he admitted, the words coming out rough, like he was prying them out of a locked box. He held out his hand, the calluses from years of sanding rod blanks rough against her skin when she laced her fingers through his. No jolt this time, just a soft, steady warmth, like he’d been holding that spot open for her without even knowing it.
They sat there for an hour, talking about his shop, her job as a travel nurse in Asheville, the time they’d all gone jet skiing back in 2012 and she’d crashed into a buoy, leaving the thin, pale scar on her left wrist he’d stared at a hundred times when no one was looking. She didn’t mention his ex, didn’t push him for more than he was willing to give, and when her grandma called her phone to say she was ready to be picked up, she didn’t let go of his hand right away.
“Can I come by your shop tomorrow?” she asked, standing up, brushing sand off the back of her jeans. “I wanna see that custom tarpon rod you posted about on Facebook last week. My brother’s been begging me to get him something nice for his birthday.” He nodded, and told her the address, even though she already knew it. She leaned down, pressed a quick, warm kiss to his cheek, and then turned and walked back up the path toward the roast.
He sat there for ten more minutes after she left, staring out at the water, the spot on his cheek still tingling where her lips had been. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, deleted the reminder he’d set for 45 minutes after he arrived at the roast to leave, and texted Earl that he wouldn’t need a ride home.
