Manny Rios, 62, retired citrus grove manager, has held the same grudge for 43 years. It sits in the back of his throat like sour pulp, easy to stir up if he so much as hears the last name Marquez. His wife Brenda laughed at him for it for 38 years of marriage, told him he was being an idiot for letting a teenage snub derail a whole family’s acquaintance, but he’d dug his heels in. That snub had cost him a minor league baseball tryout, after all. He’d never forgive Lila Marquez for ratting him and her older sister Elena out for sneaking off to a 1979 Lynyrd Skynyrd concert in Tampa, no matter how many times Brenda said to let it go.
Brenda’s been gone three years now, breast cancer that moved too fast, and Manny’s turned into even more of a hermit, puttering around his 5-acre grove alone, only coming into town for supply runs and the annual Polk County Citrus Festival. He’s perched on a wobbly plastic folding chair in the beer tent now, the floor sticky under his scuffed work boots, the air thick with the smell of sour suds, fried Oreos, and faint orange blossom drifting over from the groves at the edge of the fairgrounds. The country cover band off to the left is murdering a 90s Alan Jackson track, so loud he can feel the bass thrum in his molars.
He stands to grab another IPA from the cooler, turns too fast, slams his shoulder into a woman walking behind him, half his beer sloshes onto her pale blue linen button down. He’s about to grumble an apology that’s 90% attitude until he looks down, recognizes the freckles across her nose, the silver streaks threading through her dark wavy hair pulled back in a loose braid. It’s Lila. He freezes, his grip on the plastic cup so tight his knuckles go white. For 40 years he’s avoided every Marquez family function, every run to the grocery store when he knew she was in town visiting, specifically so he wouldn’t have to have this exact conversation.
She blinks, then snorts a laugh, dabbing at the beer stain with a crumpled napkin from her pocket. “Manny Rios. Still as clumsy as you were when you tripped over my mom’s rose bush sneaking out of Elena’s window.” Her voice is a little rougher than he remembers, warmer, like she spends half her time laughing. He scowls, about to remind her exactly why he was sneaking out, and why he’s still mad, when she steps closer, close enough he can smell coconut sunscreen and mint gum on her breath, and nods at his boots. “Still wearing those beat up cowboy boots too. I thought Elena told you they made you look like a wannabe ranch hand.”
The mention of Elena makes his jaw tighten. “You’re the one who told your mom we snuck off to that concert. I missed my baseball tryout because of you.” The words come out harsher than he means them, but he’s been holding them in so long they feel like they’ve been carved into his throat. She doesn’t flinch, just leans against the wooden support pole next to him, her hip brushing his arm when a group of teens pushes past them to get to the corn dog stand. “I know I did,” she says, and he’s so shocked he almost drops his half-empty beer cup. “I was 16. I had the biggest crush on you, and I knew Elena was just using you to get a ride to Tampa, that she was gonna dump you the second you got back. I thought if I got you in trouble, you’d stop hanging around her long enough to notice me.”
All the anger he’s carried for four decades fizzles out like a wet firecracker. He’d never even considered that. He’d written her off as a petty, nosy kid, never once thought she was acting out of something that wasn’t malice. He opens his mouth, closes it, tries again. “You had a crush on me?” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, the corners of her eyes crinkling with it, and she holds his gaze steady, no shyness now. “Obvious, right? I used to leave lemonade on your porch when you were mowing the grass next door. You always thought it was Elena leaving it.” He feels like an idiot. All those summer afternoons, cold lemonade sitting on his porch rail, ice dripping down the sides, he’d just assumed it was his ex being sweet, never thought it was the 16 year old kid who followed them around like a lost puppy.
He notices her left hand then, no wedding band, just a thin silver bracelet with a tiny orange charm on it. “Your husband?” he asks, quiet, because he remembers hearing she’d married a real estate agent from Miami back in the 90s. “Died five years ago. Heart attack, out of nowhere. Moved back here last year to take care of my mom, she’s in the nursing home on the west side of town.” She pauses, picks at the edge of the beer stain on her shirt, and for the first time he sees a flicker of nervousness cross her face. “I saw you at the key lime pie contest earlier, sitting by yourself. Almost came over, but I figured you’d still be mad enough to tell me to go to hell.”
He laughs, a real one, the kind he hasn’t let out in months, loud enough that a couple standing nearby glance over. “I was mad. Up until 30 seconds ago, I was still planning on avoiding you for the rest of my life.” He nods toward the food truck at the end of the row, the same one that’s been selling fried key lime pie at the festival for 30 years, the crust dusted with powdered sugar that sticks to your fingers for hours. “I owe you a new beer, and probably an apology for being a jackass for 40 years. You wanna split a pie, too? My treat.” She grins, bright, and pushes off the pole, her hand brushing his when she reaches for the full beer cup he’s holding out to her. “Only if you admit those cowboy boots still look stupid.”
They walk over to the picnic tables set up under an oak tree strung with fairy lights, the sun dipping low over the groves, painting the sky pink and tangerine. She sits next to him instead of across the table, their knees knocking every time one of them shifts to get more comfortable, and he doesn’t move away. She tells him she’s been working part time at the local plant nursery, that she grows heirloom tomatoes in her backyard, that she still knows all the words to every Skynyrd song even after all these years. He tells her about Brenda, about the minor league scout that still sends him Christmas cards, about the new blood orange trees he planted last spring that are finally bearing fruit.
When the pie comes, she takes the first bite, gets a dusting of powdered sugar on the tip of her nose, and he finds himself smiling before he even thinks about it. He reaches across the table to brush the sugar off, his fingers lingering on her warm, sun-kissed cheek for a beat longer than necessary.
