Rico Marquez, 52, makes his living building custom fishing rods out of his cinder block garage in Tampa’s Seminole Heights neighborhood, and he’d spent the last seven years turning down every block party invitation that landed in his mailbox. His ex-wife had left him for a commercial real estate broker she’d met at a country club golf tournament, and he’d grown tired of neighbors side-eyeing him while they asked thinly veiled questions about how he was holding up. He only showed up to this one because the retired teacher next door had left a Tupperware of her famous pork empanadas on his porch three nights prior, and he owed her the bare minimum of 10 minutes of small talk before he could slip back home to his hound dog Mako and the half-finished rod he was building for a local charter captain.
The air hung thick with charcoal smoke and the sweet tang of cut grapefruit from the tree at the end of the block, some guy two houses over blaring Jimmy Buffett so loud the tiki torches flickered with the bass. Rico held a sweating plastic cup of cheap lager, a smudge of clear epoxy still crusted on his left knuckle from the guide wrapping he’d done that morning, his worn work boots sticking a little to the spilled soda on the asphalt. He’d already exchanged pleasantries with the teacher, complimented her new patio furniture, and was halfway to his driveway when a voice called his name.
He turned, and there was Lila. His ex-wife’s cousin, 48, who he’d only met a handful of times when she’d flown in from Chicago for holidays, now leaning against a folding table holding a glass of deep purple sangria, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, a smattering of freckles across her nose he didn’t remember. She’d moved back to Tampa two months prior to take a physical therapy job at the VA, she said, when he walked over, and she’d been meaning to track him down to ask about the rod building business she’d heard he’d started after he quit his construction job.
She stepped closer when he explained the difference between graphite and fiberglass blanks, her bare shoulder brushing his when a teen carrying a tray of buffalo wings squeezed past them, and he caught a whiff of coconut sunscreen and the blackberry from her sangria on her breath. She held his eye contact a full beat longer than casual conversation required when he mentioned his split, no pity in her expression, just a slow nod, like she already knew the whole story and didn’t care to rehash it. When he made a dumb joke about how 90% of his clients were grumpy retirees who blamed their rods for their bad catches instead of their lousy aim, she laughed so hard she spilled a drop of sangria on his flannel shirt, and she reached out to wipe it off with her napkin, her thumb brushing the hair on his forearm by accident.
Rico’s brain short-circuited for half a second. He knew what people would say if they saw them flirting. His ex still had three friends on the block, and by Sunday brunch every person within a three mile radius would be gossiping about him hooking up with her cousin. He’d spent years avoiding exactly this kind of drama, had built his whole quiet little life around not giving anyone anything to talk about. But when she asked him if he’d ever consider teaching a total newbie how to fish for redfish out on the flats, her head tilted a little, the light from the tiki torch gilding the edges of her hair, he couldn’t make himself say no.
He told her he had a spare beginner rod he’d built earlier that summer, perfect for flats fishing, stashed in his garage. She said she’d love to see it, if he didn’t mind the company. Mako, who’d wandered over to beg for hot dog scraps a few minutes prior, trotted ahead of them as they walked the two houses down to his place, his tail thumping when Lila stopped to scratch behind his ears.
The string lights Rico had strung up above his workbench cast a warm gold glow over the rows of half-finished rods, the air thick with the smell of cedar, epoxy, and the citrus polish he used on the cork handles. Lila ran her finger along the glossy navy blue blank of the beginner rod, propped up against the workbench, and said it was the prettiest thing she’d seen all year. Rico stepped up behind her to point out the custom thread wrapping he’d done around the guides, his chest almost touching her back, and he could feel the heat rolling off her shoulders through her thin cotton tank top.
She turned around before he could finish explaining the thread pattern, their faces inches apart, and she kissed him first, slow and soft, the sweet taste of sangria on her lips. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t overthink it, just curled one hand around her waist and pulled her closer, the other resting lightly on the side of her neck, the epoxy crusted on his knuckle catching on her hair.
They pulled apart a minute later, both grinning like stupid teenagers, and Lila said she’d been wanting to do that since she was 22 and first met him at his wedding, back when he was wearing a terrible rented tux and tripped over his own feet during the first dance. Rico laughed, shook his head, said he’d been an idiot for 20 years not saying anything first. He grabbed the navy blue rod off the workbench, held it out to her, and said he’d pick her up at 6 a.m. Saturday, if she was free, that the redfish were biting at first light just off the Skyway Bridge.
She took the rod from him, her fingers wrapping around his for a second when she grabbed the cork handle, and said she’d bring the cold beer and a dozen of her abuela’s empanadas, the ones stuffed with beef and raisins that were better than any he’d ever had.
