Aris Moustakis, 62, spent the last 18 years running a small vintage fishing net restoration business out of a cinder block shop a block off Tampa Bay, and the last 8 avoiding any situation that didn’t involve net twine, turpentine, or his 12 year old rescue hound, Mango. His biggest flaw, per his older sister’s annual holiday rant, was holding grudges longer than he held the custom cedar net floats he carved for regular clients. He’d been gearing up to confront Elara Voss for two full weeks, ever since the new city council rep voted to raise dock fees across the local port, a move he was convinced would put half the small commercial fishing outfits he worked with out of business.
He showed up to the annual Rotary oyster roast in worn work boots and a faded fishing jersey, a half-warmed can of IPA in one calloused hand, his speech about predatory city bureaucracy already rehearsed. The air smelled like brine, smoked sausage, and charcoal, kids screamed as they chased each other with half-eaten hushpuppies, and he spotted Elara across the row of plywood picnic tables almost immediately. She wasn’t wearing the crisp navy blazer and pearls she’d had on at the council meeting. She was in muck-caked waders and a thrifted Gator Nation hoodie, hair pulled back in a messy braid, wiping a streak of hot sauce off her chin with the back of her hand while she laughed at a story the old shrimper two tables over was telling.
He started walking toward her, shoulders squared, and a 7 year old in a life vest darted out of nowhere, slamming into his side. He stumbled, spilled half his beer down the front of Elara’s hoodie sleeve, and froze, ready for her to yell. Instead, she looked down at the damp splotch, then up at him, and grinned, the corner of her mouth crooked where a scar ran from a childhood jet ski accident. “You that eager to tell me how much you hate the dock fees?” she said, leaning in close enough he could smell a mix of coconut shampoo and the smoked oyster she’d just eaten. His brain short-circuited for a beat. He’d practiced the opening line 40 times, and all he could get out was a mumbled apology, followed by a gruff question about why she was ruining the local fishing industry.
She rolled her eyes, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him to the empty end of the nearest bench, their knees pressing together under the splintered pine as she sat. The warmth of her leg through his worn jeans made him stiffen, and he almost pulled away before she spoke, quiet enough no one else could hear. The fee hike only applied to the luxury yacht slips on the north end of the port, she explained, the commercial docks were getting a 10% fee cut, tied to a state grant for sustainable fishing practices. She’d been under a gag order from the state auditor’s office for 30 days, couldn’t announce the cut publicly until the week prior, and had left three voicemails on his shop line asking him to meet so she could explain. He cringed. He’d deleted all three voicemails without listening to them, assumed they were generic city spam.
They talked for an hour straight after that, moving from the dock fees to the way the bay had changed since they were both kids, to the way his wife, Maria, used to bring baklava to every community potluck until she passed in 2015. Elara had been 12 the last time she’d seen Maria, she said, still remembered the way Maria had taught her to tie a bowline knot at a 4H campout on the bay. She shifted closer on the bench, their shoulders pressed together now, and when he passed her a fresh can of IPA, their fingers brushed, sending a jolt up his arm he hadn’t felt since he was a teenager sneaking out to meet girls at the pier. He teased her about wearing waders to a charity event, and she kicked one heavy rubber boot off to show him she had sparkly pink socks covered in tiny manatees under it, making him snort beer out his nose, loud enough the couple at the next table glanced over.
The sun dipped below the bay as they talked, painting the sky pink and orange, and most of the crowd cleared out, heading home to watch football or put kids to bed. String lights strung between the oak trees flickered on, and Elara leaned forward, her elbow on her knee, looking him right in the eye, no trace of the polished politician he’d seen at the council meeting. She’d moved back to the area six months prior, after a messy divorce from a lawyer in Orlando, she said, and she’d been scared no one would remember her, or that everyone would only see her as the out-of-town council rep who hated local fishermen. He told her he’d noticed her the second she walked into the first council meeting, he’d just been too stubborn to admit he was curious instead of mad. She reached up, brushed a fleck of oyster shell off his cheek, her palm lingering against the gray stubble on his jaw for a full three seconds, neither of them pulling away.
He asked her if she wanted to come back to his shop, said he had a bottle of 12-year-old ouzo he’d brought back from his last trip to visit family in Crete, been saving it for a good reason he hadn’t found yet. She said yes before he finished the sentence. They walked the three blocks to his shop slow, the cool bay breeze carrying the smell of salt and jasmine from the bushes lining the sidewalk, and he held the door open for her when they got there. The smell of cured netting, citrus wax, and the cedar he used for floats hit her first, and she nodded at the framed photo of Maria on the counter by the workbench, a small, soft smile on her face. He poured two small glasses of ouzo, handed one to her, and this time their palms pressed together fully, intentional, no pretense of an accident. He flicked on the small brass lamp on the workbench, and when she leaned against the edge to look at the half-restored gill net he’d been working on for a local snapper boat, he stepped right up next to her, his shoulder brushing hers as he pointed out the double-loop knot his grandfather had taught him when he was 10 years old.
