Rafe Mendez, 53, ran the only bait and tackle shop within 20 miles of his rural Ohio town, had spent eight years perfecting a routine that left exactly zero room for surprises. He’d retired from high school football coaching after his ex-wife left, too burnt out on splitting his time between 60-hour game weeks and a marriage he’d been too stubborn to nurture, and he’d filled the gaps with reel repairs, restocking minnow tanks, and swapping fish stories with regulars who showed up at 6 a.m. sharp every Saturday. His biggest flaw? He turned down every invitation that didn’t involve work or fishing, convinced any new connection would end the same way his marriage had: messy, and entirely his fault.
Mid-July street fair nights were the only exception to his 7 p.m. shop closing rule. He’d wander the two blocked-off blocks, grab a pulled pork sandwich from the fire department’s food truck, listen to the local bluegrass band play until the fireflies came out, then head home to his quiet ranch on the edge of town. This particular night, the air hung thick with the smell of grilled brats, citronella candles, and damp grass left over from the afternoon thunderstorm, and the line for the pork sandwich stretched half a block long.
He was three people back from the counter when someone rammed a stroller into the back of the woman standing directly behind him, and she yelped, spilling half her peach iced tea down the back of his faded khaki work shirt. The cold liquid seeped through the fabric fast, raising goosebumps on his sunburnt shoulders, and he turned around fast, half ready to snap, before he saw her.
She was the new librarian, he realized, the one who’d moved to town three months prior, who’d come into his shop twice already to buy nightcrawlers, though he’d never bothered to make small talk. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, streaked with a single strand of silver at the temple, and she was clutching the empty iced tea cup like it was a lifeline, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I am so sorry,” she said, leaning in a little so he could hear her over the band’s fiddle player, her hand hovering an inch from his shirt like she wanted to brush the liquid off but thought better of it. “That kid’s mom was too busy filming the band to watch where she was going.”
Rafe glanced down at the wet splotch on his shirt, snorted. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got 12 of these exact same shirts, all stained worse than this from fish guts and motor oil. Dry cleaner can’t even tell the difference half the time.”
All the picnic tables were full by the time they both got their food, so she asked if he minded sharing the last empty spot at the end of a table tucked near the oak tree at the edge of the fairgrounds. He nodded, even though his first instinct was to make an excuse and eat in his truck. They sat across from each other, knees almost brushing under the table the whole time, and she told him she drove out to the reservoir three nights a week after work to fish for catfish, that she’d been trying to figure out where the best crappie spots were but hadn’t had any luck yet. He found himself leaning in when she talked, the bluegrass getting louder as the sun went down, so close he could smell coconut sunscreen on her skin, mixed with the sugar from the fried Oreos she’d grabbed for dessert.
She kept making steady eye contact, then looking away fast when he smiled, like she was nervous he’d catch her staring. Her foot tapped his ankle once, then again, and she didn’t move it away, just kept talking about the old fishing memoirs she’d been checking out from the library’s archives, how she’d seen his state championship ring glinting on his hand and recognized his name from the old banner hanging in the high school gym. He hadn’t talked about that championship in years, hadn’t wanted to, but he found himself telling her about the last second touchdown, about how the whole town had turned out for the parade, for the first time in almost a decade without feeling that sharp twist of guilt for letting his marriage fall apart while he chased the win.
His internal fight was so loud he almost missed it when she said she was heading out to the reservoir at dusk next Saturday, that she’d been trying to find someone who knew the good spots to go with her, that she was tired of sitting on the bank alone eating cold sandwiches while she waited for a bite. His first thought was to make an excuse, to say the shop was open late that day, that he had reels to fix, but he looked up and saw her twisting the stem of her paper cup between her fingers, her cheeks pink again, and the words came out before he could stop them. “I close up at 2 that day. I’ll bring the good minnows, the ones I keep for my own trips. Know a spot off the old logging road where the crappie are so dumb they bite every time.”
She grinned, bright, and leaned forward so far their knees bumped properly under the table, warm through the thin fabric of both their pants. “You better not be lying. I’ve been waiting three months to catch something bigger than my hand.”
The fair started wrapping up a little after 9, the band packing up their instruments, families herding screaming kids back to their minivans. They walked to the parking lot together, slow, and when they got to his beat-up Ford F-150, she stopped, reached up, and brushed a smudge of barbecue sauce off his jaw with the pad of her thumb. Her skin was cool against his sun-warmed cheek, and he froze for half a second, so surprised he almost didn’t hear her when she said she’d stop by the shop Wednesday to pick up extra minnows if she got off work early.
She waved, turned, and walked to her little hatchback parked three spots over, and Rafe stood there leaning against the door of his truck long after she’d pulled out of the lot, the faint smell of coconut sunscreen still hanging in the air around him. He twisted the state championship ring on his finger once, then reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, to set an alarm for 1 p.m. next Saturday so he wouldn’t forget to close the shop on time.
