Rico Morales, 52, makes his living rebuilding vintage outboard motors out of a cinder block boathouse on the north shore of Lake Travis. His fingernails are perpetually crusted with engine grease he can’t scrub away, even with a wire brush, and he’s worn the same pair of steel-toe work boots for seven years, the soles cracked thin from walking up and down the boat ramp at all hours. He hasn’t willingly attended a town event since his wife left him for an Austin real estate agent eight years prior, but his sister had threatened to stop dropping off her famous tamales every Sunday if he skipped the annual Lions Club fish fry fundraiser, so he’d showed up, grabbed a Shiner Bock from the beer tent, and planted himself by the oak tree farthest from the crowd, already mentally mapping the parts he needed for the 1957 Evinrude he was halfway through restoring for a retiree from Dallas.
The first thing he notices when she bumps into him is the smell: fried catfish, smoked paprika, and something soft, like jasmine and lemon dish soap. A dollop of coleslaw slops over the edge of her paper plate and lands on the chest of his faded Willie Nelson tee, and she yelps, fumbling for a stack of napkins in her back pocket before he can even say it’s fine. “I am so sorry,” she says, dabbing at the stain on his chest before she seems to realize what she’s doing, her hand warm even through the thin cotton of his shirt. Her hazel eyes lock with his when she pulls back, gold flecks catching the late afternoon sun, and she laughs, a low, throaty sound that doesn’t feel forced, no awkward embarrassment hanging off it. She’s got a streak of blue paint in the auburn fringe falling over her forehead, chipped mint-green nail polish, and a silver paintbrush charm on the thin chain around her neck. She introduces herself as Clara, the new 4th grade art teacher, moved to town three months prior from Portland.
Rico’s first instinct is to brush it off, mumble an excuse, and head back to his boathouse where the only conversations he has are with motors that only make noise when you fix them right. But she nods to the empty picnic bench under the oak he’d been leaning against, says everyone she’s met so far only wants to ask her if she’s single, if she’s looking to buy a house, if she misses the coast. He snorts, sits down. It’s the first time he’s talked to someone who doesn’t lead with a question about a broken motor in months. She tells him about her dad, who used to rebuild outboards in their garage when she was a kid, says she can spot the calluses on his knuckles from twisting wrench handles a mile away. Their knees brush under the table when she leans in to tell him about a student who drew a catfish driving a speedboat for his end-of-year art project, and he doesn’t shift away. Her elbow brushes his when she reaches for her own beer, and he can feel the warmth of her skin through the flannel he’d tied around his waist earlier, soft, not cold or distant.
He’s torn, the whole time they talk. Half of him is screaming that this is a mistake, that letting anyone get close only ends with empty closets and half-empty coffee mugs on the kitchen counter, that he’s perfectly fine on his own, doesn’t need anyone messing up his routine. The other half is buzzing, light, like he’s had three beers instead of one, like he can’t stop looking at the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she laughs, the way she doesn’t glance at her phone every two minutes, the way she actually listens when he rambles about the difference between a 1960 Johnson and a 1962 Evinrude, doesn’t zone out or change the subject.
He hesitates for three full seconds, then takes her hand. Her palm is warm, a little calloused, fits in his like it was made to. He pulls her close, their bodies a few inches apart at first, then when they sway to the beat, she rests her head on his shoulder for a beat, and he can smell her hair, jasmine and the faint smoke from the fryer, the tang of Shiner on her breath when she laughs at him stepping on the toe of her work boot. He doesn’t notice the people staring, doesn’t notice his sister waving at him from across the field, doesn’t think about the Evinrude waiting for him back at the shop. All he notices is the weight of her hand on his shoulder, the way her hip brushes his when they move, the fact that he hasn’t felt this light in eight years.
When the song ends, they pull back, and she’s still holding his hand. She says she’s got her dad’s old 1959 Mercury outboard sitting in her garage, collecting dust, that she’s been trying to find someone to teach her how to rebuild it herself. He tells her his shop is open every day except Sunday, that she can stop by anytime, he’ll even throw in a free beer if she brings a batch of that coleslaw she’d been raving about ten minutes prior. She smiles, squeezes his hand, lets go, says she’ll be there at 10 a.m. Saturday, no exceptions. He watches her walk to her beat-up Subaru, waves when she honks as she pulls out of the parking lot.
He looks down at the faint smudge of her cherry lip gloss on the collar of his Willie Nelson tee, and tugs his phone out of his pocket to text his sister she can go ahead and build that website for his shop she’s been nagging him about for six months.
