Manny Ruiz, 52, has built custom inshore fishing rods out of his cinder block workshop behind his Pensacola trailer for 17 years. He’s got a scar slashing across his left knuckle from a spinning reel that exploded on him mid-build three years back, and a rule he’s never broken: no mixing business with anything that even smells like personal connection. His ex-wife left him for a charter boat captain who gave her free red snapper trips and didn’t spend 12 hours a day sanding rod blanks, so he’s kept everyone at arm’s length since, turning down invites to cookouts, fish fries, even the local fishing tournament he used to win every year. The only reason he’s at the fire department’s annual benefit fish fry in mid-July is his 78-year-old neighbor down the street brought him homemade tamales last week and threatened to stop if he didn’t show up and support the crew that put out his workshop fire two years prior.
Manny just grunts, half expecting her to follow up with a request for a free rod, the way everyone who finds out what he does usually does. Instead she nods at the custom rod he’d propped against the cooler next to his boot, the one he’d brought to donate to the silent auction, wrapped in neon green tape with his logo burned into the cork handle. “That yours?” she says, tilting her head so her sun-streaked hair falls over one eye. “I saw your work at the bait shop down on Gulf Beach Highway last month. Been saving up for three months to get one for my son’s 16th birthday. He’s obsessed with chasing speckled trout, keeps breaking the cheap Walmart rods every other trip.”
His guard drops a little, just enough that he stops pretending to stare at the band and looks at her properly. She’s got laugh lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes, a faint scar across her chin from falling off a horse when she was a kid, she tells him, when he asks. They step back from the cooler to get out of the way of a group of firefighters carrying a tray of burnt hot dogs, and her knee brushes his when they stop by a picnic table, no apology this time, just a small smile like she knows exactly what she’s doing. He tells her about the different carbon fiber blanks he uses, the way he customizes the grip size to fit the person holding it, and she listens, actually listens, no checking her phone, no glancing over his shoulder at someone more interesting, leaning in every time a song gets too loud, so close he can feel the heat off her arm through his thin flannel shirt.
When he makes a dumb joke about the mayor’s cooking being so bad even the seagulls won’t touch the hot dogs, she snorts loud enough that a couple sitting at the next table glance over, and she reaches out to swat his arm playfully, her fingers brushing the scar on his knuckle by accident. She pauses for half a second, like she’s debating pulling away, then brushes a fleck of hushpuppy crumb off his shirt sleeve before she leans back, her cheeks a little pink.
Manny’s chest feels tight, the way it hasn’t since before his ex left, torn between the voice in his head that says to shut it down, go home, lock the workshop door, and the part of him that’s been starved for someone who doesn’t just see him as a guy who makes free fishing gear. He surprises even himself when he says, “I’ll build you the rod. The one with the medium action, perfect for trout. Don’t worry about the money.” She opens her mouth to protest, and he holds up a hand to cut her off. “You said you make your grandma’s pecan pie, right? Bring me one of those. And you’ve got that flats boat you mentioned, right? Take me out fishing next month, when the redfish are running. That’s payment enough.”
Her grin is so bright it makes the July sun feel dim by comparison. She leans in, so close her breath brushes the shell of his ear when she talks, loud enough only he can hear over the music. “I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to talk to you for four months. Heard you were a total hermit who hated everyone. This is way better than paying full price for a rod.” She pulls a crumpled grocery receipt out of her purse, scribbles her number on the back, shoves it into the pocket of his flannel shirt, and squeezes his forearm for a slow beat before she turns to walk off, yelling over her shoulder that she’s got to help the fire crew load up the leftover food.
Manny stands there for a full five minutes after she’s gone, holding his half-empty beer, the receipt crinkling warm under his fingers through the shirt fabric. He picks up the catfish off his plate, takes a bite of the crispy, cajun-spiced crust, and realizes it’s the best he’s ever tasted.
