Rafe Mendez, 62, retired Texas coastal wildlife refuge manager, had avoided the annual Seadrift crawfish boil for 17 straight years. His only real flaw was holding a grudge so tight his knuckles ached long after the original slight faded, and this one traced back to his wife Linda’s funeral 18 years prior, when he’d shared a sloppy, grief-fogged kiss with her 36-year-old cousin Elara, then woken up to an empty guest room and no note. He’d assumed she regretted it, cut off all contact with that side of the family, threw himself into monitoring bird migrations and rescuing stranded sea turtles to outrun the loneliness and the sting of rejection. He only showed up this year because the fire department fundraiser was raising money for new gear for the crew that saved his cabin from a brush fire last spring, so he’d bit the bullet, pulled on his faded refuge uniform shirt and scuffed work boots, and drove the 12 miles into town.
The air hit him the second he stepped out of his dented 2008 F150: thick with cayenne, melted butter, boiled corn, and the sharp, briny tang of crawfish, zydeco music blaring from a speaker stack by the picnic tables. He grabbed a cold Shiner Bock from the ice chest by the entrance, nodded at a few old coworkers, and froze when he spotted her. She was leaning against a weathered pine picnic table, peeling crawfish with quick, practiced flicks of her wrist, auburn hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, the thin scar on her left wrist from the time they’d rescued a tangled pelican together in 2004 still faint but visible. She looked up, locked eyes with him, and smiled so wide the corners of her eyes crinkled.
He considered turning and leaving, but she waved, already pushing off the table to walk toward him, so he stayed planted, his boots crunching on the layer of discarded crawfish shells littering the grass. She stopped three feet away first, then stepped closer to pull him into a hug, her shoulder brushing his sun-warmed chest, the scent of jasmine lotion and crawfish salt clinging to her shirt. He held his breath at first, then relaxed, patting her back awkwardly, his beer can slipping a little in his damp grip. A splash sloshed over the edge onto the thigh of his jeans, and she laughed, a low, warm sound he remembered from family barbecues decades prior, dabbing at the wet spot with a paper napkin she pulled from her back pocket. Her knuckles brushed his thigh through the denim, and he flinched almost imperceptibly, but didn’t step back.
They sat on the edge of the empty picnic table, talking over the din of the music and the shouts of people competing in the crawfish peeling contest. He told her he’d retired the year prior, lived alone in the cabin he’d built on the edge of the refuge with a three-legged rescue hound named Barnacle, spent his days kayaking the back bays and taking photos of roseate spoonbills for the local nature center. She told him she’d been working as a travel nurse for 17 years, had moved to Oregon the day after Linda’s funeral because her mom had a sudden stroke, spent the next decade taking care of her until she passed, never reached out because he’d changed his phone number two weeks after the funeral and no one in the family had his new address. The grudge he’d carried for 18 years melted so fast he felt lightheaded, equal parts embarrassed at his own stubbornness and giddy that she hadn’t left because she regretted the kiss.
The sun dipped below the bay as they talked, the sky turning pink and tangerine, fireflies blinking to life in the oak trees lining the park. The zydeco band wrapped up their last set, people started folding up folding chairs and hauling half-empty ice chests to their trucks. She leaned in, elbow brushing his, her voice soft enough he had to lean down to hear her over the noise of people saying goodbye, and said she’d thought about that stupid, drunken kiss at least once a month for 18 years, wondered what would have happened if she’d had time to leave a note. He didn’t say anything for a beat, just looked at her, the golden string lights strung between the oaks catching the silver in her hair, and leaned in slow, giving her plenty of time to pull away. She didn’t. Her lips were softer than he remembered, tasting like sweet tea and the faint heat of cayenne, her hand coming up to cup the back of his neck, the familiar callus on her palm from decades of starting IV lines rough against his skin.
He pulled back after a minute, his ears warm, and asked if she wanted to come out to the cabin, catch the pelican nesting grounds at sunrise the next morning, meet Barnacle. She nodded, grabbing her canvas tote off the bench, lacing her calloused fingers through his as they walked toward his truck, the crunch of shells under their boots mixing with the distant sound of crickets.
