Manny Ruiz, 59, has spent the last 12 years restoring vintage fishing reels out of his cluttered garage in coastal Oregon, and he’s stubbornly proud of the fact he hasn’t so much as shared a meal with a woman that wasn’t his cousin or the diner waitress down the street since his wife left him for a charter boat captain. He’s got a scar across his left knuckle from a 1970s Pflueger Supreme spring that snapped when he was 16, grease permanently caked under the edges of his fingernails, and a rule that he never mixes business with anything even remotely resembling fun. That rule lasts until 3:17 PM at the annual Newport Seafood & Beer Festival, when he’s leaning against a battered cod truck sipping a hazy IPA, the sun warm on his bare forearms, still buzzing from the $1200 sale he just made of a rare 1962 Penn Senator reel to a loud, cologne-drenched real estate developer from Portland.
The developer hadn’t asked a single question about the reel’s history, hadn’t cared that it was used to catch a 187-pound yellowfin off the coast of Cabo in 1978, just said he needed something to hang above the wet bar in his new beach rental. Ten minutes later, the woman with him walks over, and Manny’s throat goes dry before she even opens her mouth. She’s wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded Oregon State sweatshirt, bare legs dusted with sand from the nearby beach, and she stands close enough that he can smell coconut sunscreen and the sour-sweet lime of the frozen margarita in her plastic cup. When a group of rowdy teens carrying cotton candy barrels past, she shifts closer, her bare shoulder brushing his bicep, and he can feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
She says she’s the developer’s wife, that she watched him talk her husband through the reel’s specs, and she’s been looking for someone who can fix her dad’s old 1950s Ocean City reel that’s been sitting in her parents’ attic since he passed 15 years prior. She holds his gaze when she talks, no demure glances down at her shoes, no polite half-smiles, just steady, dark eyes that make his chest feel tight, like he’s 17 again asking a girl to prom for the first time. When he makes a dumb joke about how 90% of the guys who buy his reels just use them as decor to impress their golf buddies instead of ever spooling line on them, she laughs loud enough that a few people turn to look, and she leans in even closer, her elbow bumping his ribs.
He’s immediately disgusted with himself for even noticing how her laugh sounds, for cataloging the smattering of freckles across her nose, for the way his stomach flips when she reaches for the extra napkin he’s holding in his left hand, her fingers brushing his for half a second, leaving a tingle that lingers long after she pulls her hand back. This is a client’s wife. He just took twelve hundred dollars from the guy. He doesn’t do this, doesn’t chase mess, doesn’t risk his reputation for a quick thrill that’ll leave him feeling empty the next morning. But then she says her husband is flying back to Portland tonight for a last-minute property emergency, that she’s staying at the beach rental alone for the rest of the week, that the rental is two doors down from the little blue bungalow he’s lived in for 22 years.
She has the reel in the trunk of her SUV, she says, and she’s got a bottle of 12-year bourbon her dad left her that she’s been saving for someone who’d appreciate it. She asks if he’d be okay with her stopping by his shop around 8, no pressure, if he’s busy she can come back another time. He opens his mouth to say no, to tell her he’s got a stack of reels to fix that he needs to get done by the end of the week, that he doesn’t take after-hours meetings with clients’ wives. But then he thinks about the frozen meatloaf sitting in his fridge, the 12 years of nights spent alone sanding down reel parts until his eyes burn, the way she’s still holding his gaze like she can see every boring, lonely part of him and doesn’t mind. He nods, and he gives her his address.
She scribbles it on the back of a beer coaster, tucks it into the front pocket of his flannel shirt that he’s got tied around his waist, her palm brushing his hip through the denim of his jeans. She says she’ll see him at 8, then turns and walks back to her husband, who’s yelling into his phone so loud his face is bright red, and she slips her hand into his like she didn’t just make plans to meet another man in three hours. She glances over her shoulder once, just before they round the corner to the parking lot, and winks. Manny pulls the beer coaster out of his pocket, wipes the smudge of her cherry lipstick off the edge with his thumb, and decides he’s not going to heat up the leftover meatloaf for dinner tonight.
