Roland Voss, 62, retired air traffic controller from Cleveland, had stood in the same spot by the loblolly pine for 47 minutes when the collision happened. He’d moved to the Florida panhandle town two years prior, after his wife’s lung cancer finally took her, and he’d spent most of that time holed up in his cinder block cottage fixing vintage ham radios, turning down every invitation to potlucks, trivia nights, and fire department fundraisers his retired mailman neighbor shoved under his door. He only showed up to this oyster roast because the neighbor had left a note taped to his truck warning if he skipped again, he’d leave all the neighborhood’s junk mail on Roland’s porch for a month. Roland hated mess more than he hated small talk, so he’d thrown on a faded Ohio State hoodie under his khaki windbreaker and dragged himself over.
The air smelled like charred oak, garlic butter, and briny salt off the gulf. He was sipping overly sweet tea out of a dented styrofoam cup, half listening to a group of retired commercial fishermen argue about federal red snapper catch limits, when a woman carrying a tray stacked high with steaming oysters tripped over a cooler’s nylon strap and slammed her shoulder into his bicep. A few oysters slid off the tray onto the patchy sand grass, and she laughed, a low, rough sound that made Roland’s neck tingle even through his hoodie. She was Elara Mendez, 58, the new county fisheries biologist who’d moved to town three months prior from coastal Oregon. She was wearing a well-worn navy flannel over a neoprene wetsuit top, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a messy braid dotted with bits of seagrass, her wind-chapped cheeks pink from the 60-degree October breeze.
“Sorry about that,” she said, holding eye contact a full beat longer than casual interaction called for, her calloused, salt-cracked hand brushing his forearm as she leaned down to grab the fallen oysters. He smelled salt, coconut sunscreen, and a faint whiff of peppermint gum on her breath when she straightened back up. “You’re the guy who fixes the old ham radios, right? I’ve got a 1970s marine unit in my garage I can’t get to turn on. Was gonna ask around about who could take a look at it without charging me an arm and a leg.”
Roland froze. He hadn’t had a conversation that wasn’t about grocery prices or prescription refills with a woman who wasn’t related to him in eight years. A sharp, weird mix of hot desire and cold self-disgust coiled in his gut; he’d spent so long telling himself he’d never be interested in anyone else after his wife died, that even looking at another woman felt like a betrayal of the 32 years they’d spent together. He opened his mouth to make an excuse, to say he was too busy, to say he didn’t take on side projects, when she nodded at the cornhole set up 20 feet away, half obscured by a group of drunk college kids on fall break.
“Tournament starts in five minutes. Winner gets a $100 gift card to the local bait shop. Loser of the final round has to jump in the gulf fully clothed. You in as my partner? Every other guy here already has a team, and I don’t feel like throwing the game on purpose just to avoid the cold water.”
He should have said no. He hated cornhole. He hated cold water. He hated being the center of attention, even for a crowd of 40 or so locals and vacationers. But he nodded before he could think better of it, before he could remind himself of all the rules he’d built to keep the world at arm’s length.
They spent the next hour leaning in close to each other between throws, her shoulder pressed to his when they huddled to talk strategy, her hand brushing his when they both reached for the same frayed cornhole bag at the same time. He found himself laughing at her jokes about the town council’s braindead rules for seagrass protection, at the way she cussed under her breath when she threw a bag wide of the board. He forgot to check his watch every five minutes, forgot to feel guilty for enjoying himself, forgot all the little boundaries he’d drawn around his own life to keep from feeling anything at all.
They made it to the final round, and they lost by one point. The crowd around the cornhole set roared, whooping and clapping, and Roland’s first instinct was to run, to make an excuse about a bad knee he’d gotten playing football in high school, to get in his truck and go home and hide under a blanket with his soldering iron. But Elara grabbed his hand, her fingers lacing through his, and grinned at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling with so much warmth he forgot how to breathe for half a second.
“C’mon. The water’s not that bad. I promise I won’t let you drown if your knee acts up.”
He didn’t pull away. He let her drag him across the cool sand, the sharp October wind stinging his cheeks, until the waves were lapping at their ankles. He yelped when a larger wave crashed against their shins, soaking his jeans all the way to the knee, and she laughed so hard she snort-laughed, wrapping one arm around his waist to steady herself when the next wave hit their thighs. They ran in until the water was up to their chests, and Roland laughed so hard his sides ached, the cold shock of the water wiping every last one of his stupid, self-imposed rules right out of his head.
They walked back to the parking lot an hour later, both dripping, their hair crusted with salt, carrying a half-dozen leftover oysters Elara had snuck off the serving tray when no one was looking. Roland grabbed the extra fleece blanket he kept in the back of his beat-up Ford F-150 for cold ham radio nights out on the porch and wrapped it around her shoulders, his fingers brushing the back of her neck when he tucked it in tight. It smelled like his laundry detergent, the same lavender scent his wife had used for 30 years, and for half a second he tensed up, waiting for the guilt to hit. It didn’t.
She asked him if he wanted to go out on her small aluminum fishing boat next weekend to check out the bioluminescent plankton that was lighting up the bay after dark, said she’d bring cold beer and grilled shrimp if he brought his tools to take a look at her old marine radio. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t make a list of reasons why it was a bad idea, didn’t hesitate like he’d expected to. He said yes.
He tucks a strand of salt-crusted hair that escaped her braid behind her ear, and for the first time in almost a decade, he doesn’t feel guilty for looking forward to tomorrow.
