Manny Ruiz, 53, has built custom fishing rods out of his Port O’Connor garage for six years, ever since his wife left him for an offshore rig foreman and he bolted Corpus Christi for the slower, quieter coast. His biggest flaw is that he’s turned stubborn reclusiveness into a personality trait—he turns down dinner invites from the local guides he sells to, skips most town events, and hasn’t so much as bought a woman a drink in seven years, convinced any kind of connection is just drama he doesn’t have the bandwidth for. He only showed up to the annual fire department chili cookoff because his neighbor practically dragged him, and he’d placed third, a ribbon he considered more of an insult than an honor, since everyone knew first place went to the fire chief’s brother-in-law every year, no matter how bland his beef and bean slop was.
“Sorry to bother you,” she yells over the music, her mouth close enough to his ear that he can feel the warm brush of her breath, “I saw you had a stack of napkins over here, my cousin’s kid just dumped a whole bowl of verde all over my jacket, and the concession stand ran out ten minutes ago.”
He nods, grabbing the stack off the table and holding it out to her. Their fingers brush when she takes them, and he notices her nails are short, no polish, smudged with blue ink at the thumb, like she’d been marking book pages earlier that day. “No problem,” he says, and he’s surprised when she doesn’t walk away, just leans back against the table next to him, dabbing at the green chili stain on her gray jacket sleeve.
“Your chili was way better than the first place entry, by the way,” she says, grinning at him, the corners of her hazel eyes crinkling. “I voted for you. The chief’s brother-in-law uses canned beans. Should be against the rules.”
Manny snorts, taking another sip of his beer. He’d spent three hours smoking the brisket for his chili the night before, had used pinto beans he’d soaked for 12 hours, had added a dash of habanero hot sauce he’d made himself from peppers he grew in his backyard. “Whole thing’s rigged,” he says, and she laughs, patting his forearm lightly, the pressure of her hand leaving a warm tingle through the thick denim of his work shirt.
They talk for 20 minutes, the band switching to slower, softer tracks as the sun dips below the Gulf, painting the sky pink and orange. He learns she moved here from Austin after her mom died, wanted a slower pace, spends her weekends kayak fishing in the bay, has caught more redfish this season than most of the local weekend anglers. He finds himself leaning in when she talks, not just to hear her over the music, but because he likes the sound of her laugh, likes that she doesn’t ask prying questions about his past, likes that she rants about the town council trying to cut the library’s after-school program budget like it’s a personal offense. For the first time in years, he doesn’t feel the urge to make an excuse and leave, doesn’t feel like someone is taking up his time uninvited.
She mentions she’s been looking for someone to build a custom rod for her dad’s 70th birthday, that her dad has fished the Gulf his whole life, has never owned a rod that wasn’t mass-produced from a big box store. “I heard you’re the best around,” she says, and she shifts closer, her knee brushing his under the table, holds eye contact for a beat longer than necessary, and Manny feels that low, warm hum of desire he’d thought he’d killed off years ago. He’s half tempted to tell her he’s booked for three months, to shut it down before it gets anywhere, to go back to his quiet garage where no one can disappoint him. But the way she’s looking at him, open and amused, no expectation, makes that thought feel stupid.
“I can fit you in,” he says, and he pulls a crumpled business card out of his jeans pocket, hands it to her. “Come by my shop tomorrow around 1, I’ll show you the blanks, you can pick out thread colors to match his favorite fishing boat.”
She tucks the card into her hoodie pocket, grinning. The band strikes up a slow, wobbly cover of Willie Nelson’s “Always On My Mind,” and a handful of couples drift out to the patch of grass they’re using as a dance floor. “You dance?” she asks, tilting her head at him.
Manny hesitates for half a second, thinks about the last time he danced, at his wedding 18 years prior, thinks about how rusty he is, thinks about all the reasons he could say no. Then he stands up, wipes his sweaty palms on the side of his jeans, and holds his hand out to her. Her palm is slightly calloused, from turning book pages and hauling kayaks, he thinks, and it fits perfectly in his. He pulls her to her feet, and she steps close, her hand resting light on his shoulder, as they sway slow to the music, the cool Gulf wind tangling her hair in the collar of his flannel.
