Manny Rios, 62, retired air traffic controller who relocated to Port Lavaca from Arlington last spring, claims his usual spot at the far end of The Rusty Pelican’s bar long before the Mardi Gras crowds roll in. It’s 8 PM, peanut shells crunch under his scuffed work boots, the jukebox blares Waylon Jennings so loud the neon Pabst sign above the bar rattles, and his Shiner Bock sweats through its label onto the sticky Formica counter. He came here to avoid the noise of the block party down the street, to drink his beer in peace before he heads out to fish the high tide at midnight, until a group of drunk college kids in feather boas jostle the stools next to him, and he looks up to see Lila Marquez brushing rum punch off her cutoff denim shorts.
He knows Lila. She runs the bait shop on the pier, he stops by three times a week for shrimp and minnows, and her late husband Jesse was the first local who spoke to him when he launched his 17-foot Boston Whaler last April. Jesse taught him where the redfish ran at high tide, brought him homemade gumbo when he caught a brutal flu last December, died of a sudden heart attack on his boat six months prior, the whole town turning out for his funeral. Manny has avoided Lila since, didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to step into small town gossip, especially not when he’d spent 18 years deliberately keeping everyone at arm’s length after his ex-wife left him for his shift supervisor. She sits two stools over at first, then a kid in a purple sequined shirt spills a hurricane all over the seat between them, so she shifts right next to him, her sun-warmed bare arm brushing his as she sets her rum and coke down, her silver shell bracelet clinking against the side of his beer bottle. He flinches like he’s been burned.
She teases him first, nods at his faded Texas Rangers cap, says she’d think he’d have washed that thing by now considering how much fish guts he’s gotten on it. He smirks, says he tried once, the logo started peeling off, so he gave up. He teases her right back, brings up the extra two dollars she charged him for live shrimp last Tuesday, and she laughs so hard she snorts. The sound cuts through the bar’s noise, bright and warm, and he finds himself leaning in without meaning to. She tells him she found Jesse’s old fly rod in the back of her storage shed last week, the one he ranted about for years being the only rod that could catch the monster redfish off the jetties. Jesse had told her a dozen times if anything ever happened to him, Manny was the only person he wanted to have it. Manny’s throat goes tight. He’d spent nearly two decades convincing himself no one ever kept their word, that everyone leaves or lets you down sooner or later.
Disgust warms his chest first, sharp and heavy. He’s disgusted with himself for noticing how her sun-bleached hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders, how she tucks a strand behind her ear when she’s thinking, how her calloused fingers brush his when she passes him a bowl of boiled peanuts the bartender slides down the counter. It feels like betrayal, like he’s stabbing Jesse in the back, like he’s breaking the stupid promise he made to himself after his ex left to never let anyone get close enough to hurt him again. He tries to pull back, gives one-word answers, stares at his beer like it holds all the answers, but she doesn’t push. She just sits there sipping her drink, watching the parade go by outside the open window, and the silence between them isn’t awkward, it’s soft, like they’ve both spent enough time around quiet people to not need to fill the space.
A float full of people in sequined costumes passes by, throws a handful of purple and gold beads through the window, one landing right in Manny’s hair. Lila snorts, leans in close to pluck it out, her breath fanning over his cheek, smelling like spiced rum and peppermint gum, her hair brushing his forehead, and he doesn’t pull away. The noise of the bar fades out for a second, all he can hear is the sound of her breathing, the distant crash of the Gulf, the thud of his own heart in his chest. When she pulls back, she’s twirling the bead between her fingers, grinning, and he finds himself asking her if she wants to get out of there, walk down to the end of the pier, watch the fireworks they’re setting off at 9. She pauses for half a second, like she’s surprised he asked, then nods, says she’d like that a lot.
They walk out into the warm, humid night, the sound of the parade fading behind them as they head down the weathered wooden pier, boards creaking under their feet, the Gulf lapping at the pylons below, salt sticking to their skin. Halfway down, she laces her fingers through his, her palm rough from tying fishing knots and hauling bait buckets, and he doesn’t let go. No one else is on the pier, everyone’s back at the bar or the parade route, so they don’t have to worry about anyone staring, anyone gossiping, anyone judging them for doing something that feels both wrong and so right it makes his chest ache. They stop at the end, lean against the splintered rail, and the first firework goes off, painting the water pink and purple, lighting up the whole sky.
He doesn’t overthink it. Doesn’t worry about what the regulars at the bait shop will say on Monday, doesn’t worry about whether this will end badly, doesn’t worry about the grudge he’s carried for almost two decades like a lead weight in his pocket. All he’s thinking about is the way her hand fits in his, the sound of her quiet gasp when a blue firework bursts overhead, the way the light hits her face. He squeezes her hand tighter as the next burst of gold light illuminates the freckles across her nose.
