Rico Marquez, 62, spent 38 years prying abalone off the rocky California seabed before a burst eardrum forced his retirement 4 years prior. His biggest flaw, as his niece never tired of pointing out, was that he’d turned reclusive after his wife’s cancer death 8 years earlier, skipping every town event, every cookout, every favor anyone asked for that required him to leave his cluttered workshop and the stack of old dive logs he tended to like relics. He’d only agreed to come to the annual Morro Bay Seafood Festival because his niece had threatened to donate his vintage dive knife collection to the thrift store if he didn’t get out of the house for three hours.
He was leaning against a wooden post by the craft beer tent, sipping a cold hazy IPA that tasted like citrus and pine, when a woman backing up to avoid a toddler waving a cotton candy stick crashed straight into his side. Her cup of clam chowder sloshed over the edge, spilling a thick, creamy streak down the front of her cream linen button-down, and a few drops splattered his worn neoprene diver’s jacket. He grunted, reaching for the stack of paper napkins on the post beside him, and when his hand brushed hers as she reached for the same napkins, he flinched like he’d touched a live wire.
He told her his name, and her face lit up. “I’ve been asking about you for weeks,” she said, leaning in so he could hear her over the crowd. Her shoulder was three inches from his, close enough that he could smell lavender shampoo mixed with the briny sea air and the char of grilled cod drifting from the food stalls. “I’m trying to collect old dive logs for the history archive, everyone says you’ve got 30 years’ worth stacked up in your shop.”
Rico tensed. He never let anyone look at those logs. They were full of notes he’d written to his wife while he was out on week-long dive trips, little inside jokes, reminders to pick up her favorite peach pie on the way home, lists of the weird things he’d found on the seabed, from a 1950s porcelain doll head to a cast iron anchor from a 19th century schooner. He almost said no, almost made up an excuse about the logs being water damaged, too messy to sort through, but then she tilted her head and smiled, and her knee brushed his when a group of college students pushed past them to get to the beer line, and the words died in his throat.
He found himself telling her about the time a 700-pound sea lion had chased him 40 feet up to the surface because he’d gotten too close to its pup, about the time he’d found a crate of unopened bourbon from a sunken prohibition-era smuggling boat, about the way the light filtered through the kelp forests at dawn, green and gold like something out of a fairy tale. She leaned in the whole time, never taking her eyes off his face, snorting when he made a dry joke about the sea lion having worse aim than his wife when she threw empty beer cans at seagulls that tried to steal their picnic food. At one point she swatted his arm playfully when he admitted he’d once hidden a sea urchin in his best friend’s dive bag as a prank, and the callus on her palm caught on the frayed edge of his jacket sleeve, sending a jolt up his arm that he hadn’t felt in 8 years.
He spent the whole time fighting with himself, half disgusted that he was even entertaining the thought of talking to another woman, half giddy like a teenager on his first date. He kept telling himself he was being disrespectful to his wife’s memory, that he was too old for this, that he’d only end up hurt again, but every time she laughed, every time her shoulder brushed his, every time she asked a question about his dives like she actually cared what he had to say, those thoughts got a little quieter.
The sun set pink and orange over Morro Rock, and the first firework exploded in the sky, bright red, making the crowd cheer. A group of people pushed past them, and Elara stumbled into his side, her head resting on his shoulder for two full seconds before she pulled back, her cheeks pink. She didn’t step away, though. She stayed close enough that he could feel the heat radiating off her arm through his jacket, close enough that he could see the gold flecks in her dark eyes when she looked up at him to watch the next firework burst, blue this time, painting her face pale blue for half a second.
Elara grinned, grabbing a napkin from the stack on the post, scribbling her phone number on it in blue ballpoint, right over a faint chowder stain. She pressed it into his palm, her fingers lingering for three slow beats before she pulled away, saying she had to get back to her table to pack up. She told him she’d bring the dark roast coffee he’d mentioned he liked, and waved as she walked away, her braid swinging over her shoulder.
Rico stood there for five minutes after she left, holding the napkin crumpled in his calloused hand, listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the dock and the faint twang of the band’s guitar. He folded the napkin carefully and tucked it into the inner pocket of his diver’s jacket, right next to the faded photo of his wife he kept there, the one where she was covered in cake at their 25th anniversary party, grinning like she’d just pulled the best prank of her life.
