Manny Ruiz, 62, retired air traffic controller, had perfected the art of being invisible in his small Florida gulf coast town. He’d moved there seven years prior, after his wife’s long battle with ovarian cancer ended, and had kept his social circle tight enough to fit in the bed of his beat-up 2008 F150: the tiki bar bartender, the bait shop owner, the vet who treated his three-legged hound. His biggest flaw, one he’d never fully admitted out loud, was chronic conflict avoidance—he’d rather drive 20 minutes out of his way to skip an awkward run-in than have a 30-second uncomfortable conversation. That’s why he’d spent the last six years ducking Lila Marlow every time he saw her at the grocery store, the gas station, the annual stone crab festival.
He’d been friends with her ex-husband Jake back when he first moved, played golf with him every Saturday for two years, until the day Jake showed up to the course with a 28-year-old realtor on his arm, bragging that Lila had no clue he was cheating. Manny had said nothing. He’d played the round, gone home, and never returned Jake’s texts, never showed up to the golf course again. When Lila filed for divorce six months later, he’d avoided her entirely, too ashamed to admit he’d known and stayed quiet.
He’d snuck to the tiki bar an hour before the festival’s main parade started, hoping to beat the crowds, grab a cold draft, and sneak back home before drunk tourists flooded the streets. He was three sips into his beer, condensation dripping down his wrist onto the sticky oak bar, when the stool next to him scraped against the concrete floor, and a shoulder brushed his, warm through the thin cotton of his fishing shirt. He smelled saltwater and coconut sunscreen before he looked up, and his throat went tight when he saw Lila, silver hoop earrings swinging as she nodded at the bartender, her sun-weathered hands dusted with faint oyster shell dust resting on the bar edge.
She ordered a frozen margarita, extra salt, and when she turned to him, she held his gaze for three full beats longer than polite, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You’ve been avoiding me for six years, Ruiz,” she said, loud enough to cut over the reggae playing from the speakers behind the bar. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Manny’s grip on his beer bottle tightened so hard his knuckles went white. He’d rehearsed this conversation a hundred times, had a dozen excuses ready, but all he could manage was a gruff “Sorry.”
She laughed, a low, rough sound that made the back of his neck tingle, and when she reached for her margarita, her wrist brushed his knuckles, and she didn’t pull away for two full seconds. “I know you knew about Jake,” she said, taking a slow sip. “I also know you bailed on him the second he told you about the girl. I don’t blame you for not saying anything. He was a manipulative asshole, would’ve made your life hell if you’d told me. I’m just mad you didn’t come find me after the divorce was final.”
The knot in Manny’s chest loosened so fast he almost exhaled out loud. He’d spent six years carrying that guilt, convinced she hated him, and here she was, telling him she’d been waiting for him to reach out. A group of drunk college kids yelled behind them, and she leaned in closer, her hand resting lightly on his forearm to hold his attention, her palm rough with calluses from hauling oyster cages, warm through his shirt. “I run the oyster farm out on the north end now,” she said, her voice lower, like she was sharing a secret. “Got a spot on the dock that’s completely hidden from the festival crowds. Cooler of cold beer, fresh stone crab claws I picked this morning. Wanna come out tomorrow at low tide?”
Manny hesitated for half a second, the old avoidance instinct kicking in, the voice in his head saying he was too old for this, that he’d mess it up, that he wasn’t ready to let someone new in. But then he looked at her, at the faint freckles across her nose, the way her lip was quirked up like she already knew his answer, and he nodded.
They finished their drinks as the parade started outside, the sound of marching bands and cheering drifting through the screen door that slammed every two seconds, bringing in whiffs of fried dough and gulf breeze. He walked her to her beat-up Jeep Wrangler parked around the back of the bar, and when they got to the driver’s side door, she leaned in, kissed his cheek first, slow, then his mouth, tasting like tequila and lime, her hand resting on the side of his neck. He didn’t overthink it, just rested his hands on her waist, the fabric of her linen sundress soft under his fingers, and kissed her back.
She pulled away after a minute, grinning, and climbed into her Jeep. “7 a.m. sharp,” she said, rolling down the window. “Don’t be late. I’m not saving you any crab if you are.”
She pulled out of the parking lot, and Manny stood there for a second, the salt wind stinging his cheeks, his hound nudging his hand from where he’d been waiting tied to the bike rack. He pulled his phone out, deleted the golf app he’d kept installed for ten years, the one he’d never opened since he bailed on Jake, then unlocked his truck door, his hound hopping up into the passenger seat before he could even reach the handle.
