Manny Ruiz, 53, makes custom fishing rods for a living out of his two-car garage in Apollo Beach, Florida. He’s stubborn to a fault, has turned down every blind date his sister has tried to set him up on for seven years, ever since his wife packed her bags and moved to Colorado with a ski instructor. He spends most weekends alone on his 16-foot flats skiff, trolling for snook and redfish, talking more to the herons that follow his boat than he does to other people. He only showed up to the annual community seafood festival because his buddy Javi, who runs the oyster booth, called him in a panic an hour prior, said his 10-year-old had broken his arm at a travel soccer game and he needed coverage for two hours max.
The oyster booth is crammed right next to the local winery’s tasting stall, so close the edges of the pop-up canopies overlap when the breeze picks up. Manny is halfway through shucking his third dozen oysters, salt crusted in the crevices of his calloused knuckles, when he reaches for a fresh bucket of ice and his hand slams straight into someone else’s. He looks up, and his throat goes tight. It’s Lena Voss, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, the one who used to tag along on their family fishing trips back when they were still married, the one he’d caught himself staring at more than once back when he knew better than to look.
The steel drum band at the end of the block is playing so loud he can feel the bass thrumming through the wooden planks under his boots. She leans in to yell over the noise, and her coconut-and-citrus shampoo hits him square in the chest, sharp and sweet, nothing like the heavy rose perfume his ex used to wear. “You lost, Ruiz? I thought you hated these things.” She’s grinning, the corner of her mouth tugged up the same way it was when she hooked a 30-pound tarpon back in 2012 and refused to let anyone help her reel it in. Her left knuckle has that same faint scar he remembers, the one she got when she tripped over a cooler and sliced her hand open on an oyster shell that same trip.
He mumbles something about Javi begging for help, goes back to shucking oysters, but he can feel her eyes on him the whole time. Their elbows keep brushing when they both reach for supplies, his bare forearm rubbing against the soft flannel of her shirt, and every time it happens he flinches like he’s been burned. He’s furious at himself for even noticing how the sun hits the gold streaks in her brown hair, how she laughs so hard at a bad joke from a tourist that she snorts a little, how she keeps glancing down at the fishing rod tattoo wrapped around his bicep. It’s wrong, he tells himself. She’s family, or used to be. Everyone in this town knows everyone’s business. People will talk.
He’s so wrapped up in his own head he fumbles the oyster knife, nicks his thumb, and before he can grab a napkin she’s reaching across the gap between the booths, dabbing at the cut with a paper towel soaked in white wine. The alcohol stings, but he doesn’t pull away. Her hand is warm, smaller than his, and her thumb brushes the edge of his knuckle when she’s dabbing at the cut. “You always were clumsy with sharp things,” she says, and she’s so close he can feel her breath on his wrist. She’s wearing the old faded gray fishing hat he bought his ex for their 10th anniversary, the one with the redfish embroidered on the front. He asks her about it, and she laughs, says she found it in a thrift store bin last year, recognized the stitch he’d sewn into the brim to fix a tear, bought it for two bucks. She wears it every time she goes kayaking, she says, even though it’s a little too big.
By the time Javi shows up, sunburned and stressed, two and a half hours have blown by like nothing. Manny helps Javi break down the oyster booth, and when he turns around Lena is struggling to lift a heavy case of sauvignon blanc into the back of her SUV. He walks over to help, grabs the other end of the case, and their hands brush again when they set it down. This time he doesn’t pull away. He holds her hand for three whole seconds, the calluses on his palm scraping against hers, and he says he’s heading out on his skiff tomorrow morning at 7, if she wants to come. He knows a spot off the mangroves where the snook are biting this time of year, he says. No pressure.
She doesn’t even hesitate. She says she’ll bring the cold brew, extra cream, the way he likes it. He freezes for a second, forgot she even remembered how he takes his coffee. When she leans in to hug him goodbye, her chest presses against his, and he can feel the heat of her through her shirt, the soft weight of her hair against his neck. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 22,” she whispers in his ear, quiet enough no one else can hear, before she pulls away, climbs into her SUV, and drives off.
He sits in his truck for 10 minutes after she leaves, staring at the empty parking spot, half convinced he made the whole thing up. He’s still half convinced when he wakes up at 6 the next morning, loads his tackle box into the skiff, idles at the boat ramp waiting for her. He sees her walking up 10 minutes early, thermos in one hand, that beat up old fishing hat pulled low over her eyes, a pair of rubber waders slung over her shoulder.
He tosses her a neon orange life jacket, the corner of his mouth tugging up into a real smile for the first time since his divorce papers were signed.
