Leo Marquez, 52, forensic accountant, wears faded Wranglers, starched pearl snap shirts, and scuffed steel-toe boots he’s had resoled three times. He’s spent the last 12 years poring over spreadsheets for small Texas municipalities, unearthing embezzlement schemes from city council members and little league treasurers alike, and his routine is so rigid he eats the same turkey sandwich for lunch every Tuesday and Thursday without fail. His only non-work obligation is the annual Westlake Volunteer Fire Department fish fry, a tradition he’s kept since his divorce 8 years prior, mostly because his admin threatens to hide his favorite audit software license if he skips. He hates small talk, hates the smell of fried grease sticking to his shirt, hates that every old lady in town keeps trying to set him up with their widowed cousins.
He’s leaning against a gnarled live oak by the drink table, picking at a paper plate of overcooked catfish and soggy coleslaw, when a woman’s arm brushes his as she reaches for a stack of napkins. He smells coconut sunscreen and cedar, looks up, and it’s Clara Mendez—his ex-wife’s high school best friend, the one he used to sneak glances at during football games, the one who laughed at his terrible math jokes when no one else did, the one who was always unspokenly off limits, even after his marriage ended a decade prior. He’d heard she moved back to town two months prior, after her husband of 27 years died of a heart attack on a fishing trip in the Gulf.
She grins, holds eye contact for three beats longer than polite, nods at his plate. “Still eating the catfish even though you know they overcook it every year? Some things never change, Leo.” She’s 51, wears cutoff jean shorts and a faded Willie Nelson tee, silver streaks threading through her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, a faint smudge of clay on her left wrist—she does pottery, he remembers, used to sell hand-thrown mugs at the county fair back in the 90s. When she laughs at his offhand joke about auditing the fire department’s concession stand funds to find out why the hushpuppies are shrinking every year, her hand rests on his forearm for three full seconds, the callus on her thumb catching on the frayed edge of his shirt sleeve. Heat crawls up his neck, a flutter he hasn’t felt since he was 17 sneaking beer out to the lake with his friends.
His brain fires off a dozen red flags in quick succession. His ex would throw a fit loud enough to wake the dead if she found out they were talking, half the town would gossip for months, he’s got a stack of bank statements waiting on his desk at home he planned to get through before dawn. But she’s leaning in, shoulder pressed lightly to his, tells him she’s been asking around about him since she moved back, that she always thought he got a raw deal when her friend left him for a guy who sold used RVs out of a lot off the interstate. He tries to mumble an excuse to leave, mentions a time-sensitive fraud case he’s working, but she tugs lightly on his sleeve, says she’s got a six pack of Dos Equis, the same kind he used to drink back in high school, in the back of her truck, asks if he wants to drive out to the old cliff overlook they used to sneak to as kids.
He hesitates for 10 full seconds, then nods. They climb into her beat up 2004 Ford F150, the radio blaring 90s George Strait, wind whipping through the open windows, the sharp smell of pine from the woods lining the back road mixing with her perfume. When they pull up to the overlook, the sun is dipping below the lake, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and lavender, crickets chirping loud in the brush around them. They sit on the tailgate, pass a beer back and forth, talk about the old days: the time they snuck into the drive-in and got chased out by a security guard on a four-wheeler, the time he helped her fix her rusted 1987 Camaro the night before prom so she wouldn’t have to ride with her date. She admits she always liked him, back then, but she didn’t want to hurt her friend, so she never said a word.
He doesn’t overthink it. He leans in, kisses her, tastes peach iced tea and mint gum, her hand coming up to cup his jaw, the clay smudge on her wrist leaving a faint brown mark on his skin. It’s softer than he ever imagined, warmer, no awkward fumbling, no pressure, just the kind of kiss that makes you realize you’ve been half-waiting for it for half your life. When they pull apart, she laughs, wipes the clay smudge off his cheek with her thumb, says she’s glad he didn’t turn her down.
They stay there until the first stars prick through the dark, and when he texts his admin that he’s taking a personal day the next morning, he doesn’t second guess it. He doesn’t worry about the gossip that will spread through town by the end of the week, doesn’t worry about the spreadsheets piling up on his desk, doesn’t worry about any of the rigid rules he’s lived by for the last 8 years. He laces his fingers through hers over the center console, turns up the George Strait track playing on the radio, and doesn’t even glance at the work emails pinging on his phone in the cup holder.
