Manny Ruiz, 62, retired citrus grove manager, had held the same grudge for 18 years. He’d blamed Lena Hart, his ex-wife’s former best friend, for talking her into leaving him, even when he knew deep down the split was his own fault—70 hour work weeks during harvest season, missed anniversaries, a tendency to grunt instead of talk when he was stressed. He’d sold his 40-acre grove outside Lakeland last fall, moved to a tiny bungalow 10 minutes from the Gulf, and spent every Thursday night on the patio of The Salty Oyster, working his way through a dozen raw oysters and two pints of cold lager while he watched pelicans dive for fish off the nearby pier.
The first cool snap of October had rolled in that afternoon, so the patio’s propane heaters glowed orange, casting soft light over the chipped Formica tables and the crowd of locals in flannel and faded fishing shirts. Manny was wiping Old Bay off his calloused fingers with a crumpled napkin when he heard that laugh—sharp, loud, unapologetic, the same one that used to cut through the noise of every backyard barbecue he’d hosted in the 90s. He looked up, and there she was, 10 feet from the bar, holding a glass of pinot grigio, scanning the crowd for an empty seat. Her hair was streaked with silver now, cut short to her chin, and she was wearing a linen button-down that matched the color of the gulf at high tide.
Their eyes locked. She froze for half a second, then the corner of her mouth ticked up in that familiar, teasing smirk he’d always simultaneously hated and wanted to kiss. She walked over, boots clicking on the weathered wooden planks of the patio, and nodded at the empty stool next to him. “This taken? Or are you saving it for the ghost of your terrible personality circa 2005?”
Manny snorted, pushed the stool out with his boot. “Sit. Just don’t start lecturing me about work-life balance before I finish my last oyster.”
She sat, and their shoulders were six inches apart, close enough that he could smell her perfume—jasmine and sea salt, not the cloying floral stuff his ex used to douse herself in. When a server hauling a tray stacked high with oyster buckets squeezed past, she leaned into him to get out of the way, her forearm brushing his bare bicep, and the contact sent a jolt up his spine he hadn’t felt in 10 years. She didn’t pull away immediately, just glanced up at him, her dark eyes glinting in the heater light, before she sat back straight and took a sip of her wine.
They traded barbs first. She teased him about still wearing those scuffed steel-toe work boots even though he didn’t have a grove to tend to anymore. He teased her about still toting that giant leather planner she used to haul to every Sunday brunch, the one covered in sticker decals of wedding cakes and sunflowers. She was in town for a beach wedding, she said, her first client in the area since she’d expanded her planning business to the Gulf Coast last year. He told her about the small vegetable garden he planted in his backyard, the way he spent three hours every morning walking the pier and talking to the retired commercial fishermen.
Two hours slipped by faster than either of them noticed. The patio crowd thinned, the bartender started stacking chairs, and they finally got around to the divorce. Lena set her wine glass down, her voice softer now, no edge to it. “I never told your ex to leave you, you know. I just told her she didn’t have to stay married to a man who would rather sleep in the grove during harvest than come home to her. You know I was right.”
Manny stared at the label of his empty beer bottle, picked at a flake of paint on the bar. He’d known that for 18 years. Blaming her had just been easier than admitting he’d thrown away 12 years of marriage because he was too stubborn to ask for help running the grove, too proud to admit he was tired. “I know,” he said, and it was the first time he’d said it out loud to anyone, let alone her. “I was an asshole. Blaming you was easier than blaming myself.”
She reached across the bar to grab the extra napkin stack, and her fingers brushed his. Neither of them pulled away for three slow beats, the distant crash of waves the only sound between them. When she pulled her hand back, her cheeks were pink, and she looked away for the first time all night, like she was suddenly shy.
By the time the bartender told them they had to leave, the air was cool enough that Manny could see his breath when he exhaled. They walked to the gravel parking lot together, their shoulders brushing every few steps, and when they got to his truck, parked right next to her rental SUV, she stopped and turned to face him. “I always thought you were the most insufferable man I’d ever met,” she said, her voice low, her gaze fixed on his mouth. “I also always thought you were the hottest insufferable man in Polk County. For the record.”
Manny laughed, a rough, warm sound, and reached out to brush a strand of wind-tousled silver hair off her face, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her cheek. She leaned into the touch, her hand coming up to rest on his wrist, and he leaned down to kiss her, slow and unhurried, the salt of oysters and beer and wine on both their lips, the faint hum of the pier’s streetlights in the background.
They pulled away after a minute, both grinning like stupid teenagers, and she typed her number into his flip phone—he’d never bothered to upgrade to a smartphone, said he didn’t need another thing demanding his attention. They made plans to get pancakes at the tiny Main Street diner at 8 a.m. the next day, no agendas, no old grudges, just them. She got in her rental, rolled the window down, and waved as she pulled out of the lot. Manny leaned against the bed of his truck, watched her taillights fade around the corner, and picked a stray petal of jasmine that had stuck to the collar of his flannel shirt off, twisting it between his fingers.
