Rafe Mendoza, 53, has restored 72 vintage wooden boats out of his tiny Tampa Bay workshop since his divorce 12 years back, and he’s avoided every waterfront community event for all 12 of those years. His ex-wife ran the event coordination side of their old marina before she left him for a luxury condo developer who’d spent six months pressuring Rafe to sell his shoreline lot, and Rafe had drawn a hard, uncrossable line: no gatherings she might show up to, no small talk with her side of the family, no unnecessary reminders of the life he’d had to rebuild from scratch. The only reason he’d caved to his niece’s begging to bring his 1964 Boston Whaler to the annual mullet run festival was that the kid had spent three weekends sanding the hull with him, and he couldn’t say no to the first person in years who’d shown genuine interest in his work, not just the value of his land.
She stepped closer to set her seltzer down on the gunwale next to his half-drunk IPA, and their knuckles brushed when he reached to move his beer out of her way. He felt the rough callus on her index finger, the one she got from playing rhythm guitar in that folk band she’d been in since college, and she didn’t yank her hand away right away, just held it there for half a beat, her dark eyes holding his, a tiny, teasing smile playing at the corner of her mouth. The salt wind off the bay carried the smell of coconut sunscreen, fried grouper from the food truck line, and the faint, briny scent of her hair, pulled back in a messy braid streaked with a single strand of silver he hadn’t noticed the last time he’d seen her, four years prior at a mutual friend’s funeral. He’d spent 15 years pushing down the stupid, quiet crush he’d had on her, telling himself it was wrong, that family was off limits, that he didn’t need more drama in his life, and for a second that old, sharp resentment flared – resentment at his ex, resentment at the stupid, self-isolating rules he’d made to protect himself that had kept him lonely for a decade.
They talked for an hour, the crowd around the boat showcase thinning out as people drifted toward the shore to set up blankets for the fireworks. She told him she’d moved back to Tampa three months prior, left her abusive ex-husband in Jacksonville, was working at a small guitar shop in Ybor City, had picked up his number from his niece a dozen times but never called, scared he’d slam the door in her face. When a group of drunk guys in neon fishing shirts stumbled past, yelling about the 30-pound mullet one of them had caught that morning, she stepped in even closer, her shoulder pressing firm into his bicep, and he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin cotton of his faded work tee. “I missed hearing your dumb boat jokes,” she said, laughing so hard she snort-laughed, when he told her about the guy who’d brought in a 1950s Chris-Craft last month that had a whole nest of raccoons living in the cabin.
She nodded out at the bay, where the sun was dipping low, painting the water streaks of pink and tangerine. “You gonna take this thing out before the fireworks start, or are you just gonna let it sit here looking pretty?” He didn’t even hesitate. Ten minutes later, they were idling out of the no-wake zone, Lila sitting on the bench seat next to him, her thigh pressed warm and solid to his the whole time he throttled up, wind whipping her braid loose against his arm. He cut the engine a half mile out, bobbing next to a small sandbar where a few herons were wading for small, silvery bait fish, and before he could say anything, she leaned in and kissed him. He didn’t pull away. All that old resentment, all the stupid rules he’d made to protect himself, all the fear of gossip and drama, melted faster than salt in warm water. She tasted like cherry seltzer and lime and the faint salt of the bay on her lips, and when she pulled back, she was grinning, like she’d been waiting just as long to do that as he had.
They turned the boat back toward shore right as the first firework burst red and gold over the waterfront, lighting up the crowd spread out on the beach. Lila laced her fingers through his where his hand rested on the throttle, and he didn’t let go, even when they passed a group of people on a pontoon boat who waved and cheered, even when he spotted his ex standing on the pier, her mouth hanging open when she saw them. When they pulled up to the dock, she squeezed his hand once before she stepped onto the weathered planks, already asking him if he wanted to split a plate of fried oreos from the food truck before the rest of the show started.
