Rafe Mendez, 53, makes his living building custom fishing rods out of the cinder block garage attached to his tiny coastal Oregon cottage, and he hasn’t willingly attended a town event in the three years since his ex-wife left him for the county parks director. His old fishing buddy Ray had to practically drag him to the annual summer beer festival, muttering that hiding out with his carbon fiber blanks and spools of colored thread was making him turn into a hermit. Rafe had grumbled the whole walk over, already planning his escape route before he’d even sipped his first hazy IPA.
He’d planted himself against the side of the fried onion ring truck 20 minutes in, half ignoring Ray’s story about a 30-pound steelhead he’d caught the week prior, when he spotted her. She was standing 10 feet off, holding a stack of neon orange pamphlets and a tote bag slung over one shoulder, laughing at a red-faced toddler who’d just grabbed a handful of fries from his dad’s paper tray. The sun gilded the auburn strands of her hair, streaked with thin lines of silver at the temples, and she was wearing worn denim cutoffs, a faded county public health hoodie rolled to the elbows, and scuffed white sneakers dotted with mud. No fake nails, no heavy makeup, just a tiny silver fish hook earring swinging from her left ear, and a thin, pale scar wrapping around her left wrist that he’d know anywhere: a deep sea fishing hook injury, the kind you get when you’re reeling in a fish too big for your gear and the line snaps back.
She caught him staring a second later, and instead of looking away, she smiled and walked over. He tensed up, assuming she was going to hand him a pamphlet about tick bite prevention and move on, but when she stopped less than a foot away, he could smell lavender shampoo mixed with the faint briny scent of the ocean clinging to her clothes. “You’ve got a pretty gnarly sunburn on your nose,” she said, holding out a small travel tube of mineral sunscreen. Their fingers brushed when he took it, warm and calloused on both ends, and she paused, her gaze dropping to the tattoo wrapped around his right forearm: the exact blue and green thread pattern he’d used on the last rod he built for his dad before he passed. “Nice rod wrap,” she said, nodding at the ink. “I’ve been looking for someone to build me a steelhead rod that doesn’t fall apart halfway up the river. The big box garbage I bought last month snapped on a 12-pounder last week.”
Rafe blinked. Most people in town only talked to him to ask if he’d heard about his ex’s new hiking trail project, or to pity him for living alone. He didn’t realize anyone even knew what a custom rod wrap was, let alone cared enough to comment on the tattoo. “I build rods,” he said, before he could think better of it. “Out of my garage. Could build you one that’ll hold up to a 40-pounder, easy.”
She leaned in a little, elbows brushing his, as a group of drunk college students stumbled past, yelling about a cornhole tournament. She didn’t step back when the crowd cleared. “No kidding?” she said, and he could hear the faint jingle of her fish hook earring when she tilted her head. “I’m Lila, by the way. Just moved here from Portland three months ago, working the public health contract for the county. Everyone keeps telling me the best rod builder around is some guy who never leaves his house.”
Rafe snorted. That tracks, he thought. He was just about to ask her what kind of action she preferred in a rod, when he spotted his ex walking across the festival grounds, holding hands with the parks director, and he tensed up all over again. He’d spent three years avoiding this exact scenario, worrying people would whisper about him, that everyone was waiting to see if he’d spiral. Lila must have noticed the shift, because she nodded her head toward the tree line at the edge of the field. “Wanna ditch this?” she said, jerking her thumb at a beat up Subaru parked by the entrance. “I’ve got a cooler of grapefruit seltzer in the back, and I know a river access spot 10 minutes from here no one else uses this time of year. I also have the beat up old fiberglass rod my grandpa left me in the trunk, if you wanna tell me if it’s worth saving.”
Rafe hesitated for half a second, his brain screaming that this was a bad idea, that he’d end up embarrassed, that he wasn’t ready to talk to anyone new, let alone a woman who laughed like she didn’t care who heard it and had a fishing hook scar on her wrist. Then he looked at her, standing there with her hoodie half unzipped, a lazy, teasing glint in her eye, no pity, no curiosity about his marriage, no expectations, and he nodded.
They left Ray holding his half empty beer, yelling after Rafe that he owed him a new rod for dragging him out, and drove out to the river, the windows rolled down, the smell of pine and salt blowing through the car. They sat on a weathered cedar log half buried in the riverbank, the sun dipping pink and orange over the fir trees across the water, as Rafe pulled her grandpa’s old rod out of the trunk, running his calloused fingers over the cracked cork grip, pointing out the tiny, hand-tied guides her grandpa had wrapped himself. He told her he could refinish the whole thing, replace the guides, rewrap the thread, no charge, and she leaned her head on his shoulder for two slow, warm seconds before pulling back, grinning, saying she’d bring him a homemade peach pie she’d baked the night before as payment, no exceptions.
Rafe didn’t think about his ex, or the gossip, or the stack of unfinished rod blanks waiting for him on his workbench back at the garage. He reached down, picked up a smooth, flat river rock, sidearmed it across the surface of the water, and watched it bounce four times before sinking beneath the ripples.
