Javier Mendez is 59, spent 28 years as an offshore oil rig surveyor before his knees gave out, now runs a small fishing guide outfit out of Port Aransas, Texas. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a rig crane accident, and a habit of bailing on plans the second they start to feel like they might require more emotional labor than hauling a 40-pound redfish off a jetty. Everyone in town knows he hasn’t dated since his wife left him 12 years prior, after he chose a last-minute emergency rig deployment over flying to Houston for her mother’s funeral. He’s never bothered correcting anyone who calls him a loner; it’s easier than admitting he’s still scared he’ll mess up anything good that lands in his lap.
The oyster roast fundraiser for the local volunteer fire department is the only town event he shows up to every year, mostly because the oysters are pulled straight from the bay that morning, briny and sweet, and the beer is cold enough to cut through the thick Gulf humidity, salt from the water clinging to the back of his throat with every sip. He’s leaning against the bed of his beat-up 2008 F-150, work boots crunching on crushed oyster shells spread over the patchy grass, when she walks over. He recognizes her immediately: Clara Bennett, the new county animal control officer who moved to town three months prior, the one every guy at the bait shop has warned him away from, on account of her being the ex-wife of the sheriff running for re-election, who’s got a reputation for pulling over anyone he thinks looks at her too long.
She’s holding a crumpled paper plate in one hand, a half-empty can of grapefruit hard seltzer in the other, and she stops a foot away, close enough he can smell jasmine perfume mixed with coconut sunscreen, the same kind his 10-year-old granddaughter uses when she visits for spring break. “You look like you know what you’re doing with that shucking knife,” she says, nodding at the neat pile of empty oyster shells at his feet. “I’ve gone through three already and only got one edible one out of the bunch, most of it ended up on my shoe.”
He hesitates for half a second, glancing over her shoulder to where the sheriff is standing by the oak fire pit, slapping backs and handing out campaign bumper stickers to a group of volunteers. The last thing he needs is to get pulled over twice a week on his way to the boat ramp for no reason, his truck torn apart on the side of the road for a “routine drug search.” But she’s grinning, one eyebrow lifted, and there’s no hint of expectation in her face, like she won’t be offended if he tells her to go ask someone else. He nods, patting the empty spot on the truck bed next to him. “C’mere. Grip the hinge side hard, don’t stab straight down, you’ll split the meat before you get the shell open.”
She sits, her shoulder brushing his when she leans in to watch his hands wrap around the oyster. Her jeans are patched at the knee, there’s a streak of dark dirt on her jaw from picking up a stray golden retriever that morning, she says, and when she fumbles her first attempt, brine splatters all over the front of his faded navy flannel shirt. She laughs, loud and unselfconscious, grabbing a napkin from the stack next to him and dabbing at the wet spot, her fingers brushing the top of his chest through the thin fabric. He freezes for half a second, unused to anyone being that close on purpose, no agenda, no awkward pity for his solo status.
They talk for 40 minutes, easy, no forced lulls. She asks about his best fishing trips, listens when he tells the story of catching a 47-pound redfish last fall, no eye rolling, no cutting him off to talk about herself. She tells him about the three leashed pigs she picked up last week that escaped from a 4H farm, how she had to chase them for two miles through a pecan orchard, her boots caked in mud by the time she corralled the last one. He finds himself laughing, a real laugh, the kind that makes his sides hurt, and he doesn’t even notice when the sheriff walks over until he’s standing right in front of them, shadow falling across their plates.
“Javier,” the sheriff says, voice tight, nodding at him like he’s doing him a favor by acknowledging his existence. “Mind if I steal my wife for a second?”
Clara sits up straight, not moving away from Javier’s side, and her voice is loud enough that the group of people standing ten feet away go quiet for half a second. “Ex-wife. And no, I’m having a conversation.”
The sheriff’s jaw tightens, he glares at Javier like he’s already planning to write him a dozen parking tickets for his truck parked legally on the street, then turns and walks back to his campaign group without another word. For a second, Javier considers making an excuse to leave, to go home to his empty trailer and his hound dog and avoid all the drama before it starts, the way he’s done for 12 years. But he looks at Clara, she’s grinning like she just won a prize fight, and he realizes he doesn’t want to run this time.
He picks up another oyster, shucks it in two quick, practiced motions, hands it to her on a saltine with a dollop of his homemade habanero hot sauce. “Low tide’s at 7 a.m. tomorrow. I’ve got an extra rod on the boat. We can catch enough redfish for dinner, if you want.”
Her smile softens, she takes the oyster, eats it in one bite, and nods, wiping brine from her lower lip with the back of her hand. “I’ll bring the cold beer. Don’t be late.” She tucks a crumpled slip of receipt paper with her phone number scrawled on it in blue ballpoint into the breast pocket of his flannel, her fingers brushing his wrist for half a second, then stands up, grabs her plate, and walks over to help the group of elderly fire department volunteers carry a tray of steaming oysters to the far picnic tables.
Javier takes a sip of his now-warm Lone Star, looks down at the pocket where her number is tucked, and can still smell jasmine lingering on the collar of his shirt. He pulls his old flip phone out of his jeans pocket, types her number into his contacts, and sets an alarm for 5:45 a.m., no snooze button enabled.
