Manny Ruiz, 62, retired citrus grove manager, had spent the last six hours prodding satsumas, sniffing grapefruit, and scribbling scores on a crumpled clipboard for the Hillsborough County Fair’s amateur citrus contest. His work boots were caked in sawdust and fairground mud, the knee of his frayed denim jeans streaked with bright orange from a ripe tangerine that burst when he dropped it an hour earlier. He ducked into the beer tent as the sun dipped below the treeline, painting the sky in streaks of tangerine and pale pink, grabbed a cold amber ale, and claimed an empty picnic table at the far end of the space, deliberately out of sight of the group of fellow former grove workers who’d been trying to set him up with their widowed sister from Tampa all week.
He was staring at the faded logo on his plastic beer cup when a shadow fell across the table. He looked up, and froze for half a beat. Clara Marquez, Elena’s first cousin, 10 years younger than his late wife, the woman he’d only met twice before—once at his 1989 wedding, once at Elena’s sister’s 2001 wedding, right before she moved to Oregon to pursue glass blowing. She had dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of cobalt blue glass dye on her left jaw, a faded Lynyrd Skynyrd tee, a plaid flannel tied around her waist, and scuffed work boots identical to the pair on his feet. A single silver hoop glinted in her left ear. “Manny Ruiz,” she said, grinning so the corners of her eyes crinkled. “I’d know that stupid citrus stain on your jeans anywhere.”
His first instinct was to make an excuse and leave. He’d spent seven years deliberately keeping everyone at arm’s length, convinced that even casual interest in another woman was a betrayal of the 27 years he’d had with Elena, and the fact that she was family only made that guilt sharper, hotter, coiling low in his stomach. But he nodded instead, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. “Thought you were still blowing glass up in the Pacific Northwest.”
She sat, shifting to get comfortable, and her knee brushed his under the table. He tensed, suddenly hyperaware of the scent of jasmine lotion on her skin mixed with the sharp, sweet tang of molten glass and the burnt sugar of the cotton candy stand 20 feet away. “Got a booth at the fair’s craft market for the month,” she said, tapping her own beer cup against his. “Heard you were judging the citrus contest. Figured I’d find you hiding in the corner avoiding everyone.”
He laughed, short and rough, because she was exactly right. They talked for an hour, first about the fair’s terrible ride safety record, then about the grove he’d sold after Elena was diagnosed with lung cancer in 2016, then about Elena herself. She didn’t tiptoe around the subject, didn’t look at him like he might shatter if her name was spoken too loud, told him stories about Elena sneaking her sips of beer when she was 16, about how Elena used to rave about his famous smoked tangerine ribs to every family member who would listen. He leaned forward without noticing, their faces barely a foot apart, when she reached across the table to wipe a fleck of funnel cake powdered sugar off his cheek. Her fingers were calloused from years of working with hot glass, warm when they brushed his jaw, and he didn’t pull away. Their eyes locked for a second, and he saw flecks of gold in her hazel irises, same as Elena’s, but soft, no edge of chemo fatigue, no tight line of pain around the edges.
She nodded toward the waterfront at the edge of the fairgrounds, the noise of the country band and roller coaster screams fading as the night got later. “The bioluminescence has been insane this week. Plankton lights up neon blue every time you kick the water. Wanna go see?”
He almost said no. Almost made up an excuse about the feral tabby he fed every night back at his Airstream, almost reminded himself that family would talk, that he was supposed to still be the grieving widower who didn’t go on late night walks with pretty women. But he looked at her, grinning, the last of the sunset catching the silver streak in her braid, and he said yeah.
They walked across the emptying fairgrounds, dewy grass sticking to the cuffs of their jeans, their shoulders brushing every few steps. He didn’t move away. They reached the small weathered wooden dock at the edge of the bay, and she kicked off her boots, rolled up her jeans, and dipped her feet in the water. The plankton lit up bright, glowing blue around her ankles, like someone had dumped a bucket of glow sticks in the bay. She laughed, kicking her foot lightly to send a spray of glowing water toward his boots. He sat down next to her, close enough that their thighs pressed together, his own feet dangling over the edge of the dock.
“You don’t have to feel guilty, you know,” she said quietly, staring out at the water instead of at him. “Elena told me once, if she ever went first, she wanted you to find someone who makes you laugh. Not mope around in an Airstream alone for the rest of your life.”
A lump rose in his throat; he hadn’t cried in six years, but his eyes burned. “I thought if I moved on, it meant I didn’t love her anymore,” he said, his voice rough. She turned to look at him, her hand resting on the dock between them, her pinky brushing his. “Love isn’t a pie, Manny. You don’t run out of slices. You just make more.”
He laced his fingers through hers, her palm warm and rough against his own calloused hand. When a fish jumped in the bay nearby, the water lit up so bright it cast faint blue shadows across their legs. They sat there for an hour, not talking much, watching the glowing plankton drift in the current, their hands tangled together. He walked her back to her small camper next to the craft booths when the fair shut down for the night, and she stopped on the porch, leaned up, and kissed him soft. She tasted like citrus seltzer and mint, and he didn’t overthink it, didn’t pull away, just rested his hand gentle on her waist.
He walked the 30 yards back to his own Airstream, the feral tabby he fed curled on the step purring loud enough to hear from three feet away. When he leaned down to scratch her behind the ears, he noticed his fingertips were still glowing faint blue from the plankton.
