Rafe Jimenez, 53, has spent the last 16 years restoring vintage fiberglass fishing boats out of a cinder block shop on the edge of East Texas’ Lake Caddo. He’d shown up to the local fire department’s annual charity fish fry only to drop off the 12-foot 1972 Jon boat he’d donated for the raffle, and would’ve bailed immediately if the line for fried catfish hadn’t stretched 20 people deep. Grease from a last-minute fiberglass repair was crusted under his fingernails and smudged along his left jaw, he’d skipped shaving that morning, and the only reason he’d agreed to grab a plate was to avoid making small talk with the fire chief, who kept trying to rope him into restoring the department’s old rescue boat for free. He grabbed a spot at the farthest picnic table from the stage, popped the tab on a sweet tea, and planned to eat fast enough to be gone before the raffle drawings started.
All the other empty seats filled up fast, so when a woman he’d never seen before leaned over the table, elbow brushing his flannel sleeve to ask if the spot across from him was free, he couldn’t reasonably say no. She was in high-waisted jeans and a faded Willie Nelson t-shirt, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, and she smelled like coconut shampoo and the fried okra she was carrying on her plate. Rafe grunted an affirmative, went back to picking at his catfish, and assumed she’d stay quiet the whole time. He was wrong. She nodded at the embroidered patch on his chest, the one with his shop name – Jimenez’s Vintage Boat Works – stitched in bright blue, and asked if he was the one who’d donated the Jon boat everyone was gossiping about.
Rafe’s first instinct was to be a jerk. He’d spent the last 8 years assuming anyone who didn’t work with their hands for a living would see his boats as nothing more than a fancy lawn ornament, leftover from when his ex-wife left him for a pharmaceutical sales rep who’d called his career a “grubby, dead-end hobby” at their last Christmas party together. He told her most raffle winners wouldn’t know a transom from a trolling motor, that they’d probably let the boat rot in their driveway within six months. She laughed, loud and unapologetic, and leaned in far enough that her knee brushed his under the table. She said she was the new part-time librarian in town, had moved three months prior after her ex sold her old fishing boat in the divorce, and she’d bought 20 raffle tickets specifically to win his, because she’d spent weeks walking past his shop and peering in the windows at the boats he was working on.
Rafe blinked, didn’t have a snappy reply for that. She swiped a napkin across the table, then reached across, her thumb brushing the edge of his jaw as she wiped the grease smudge he’d forgotten about off his skin. She held up her thumb to show him the dark smudge, grinning, and teased him for being so focused on his boats he forgot to check his own face in a mirror. A group of kids darted between the tables a minute later, one slamming into her side, and she stumbled, grabbing his bicep to steady herself. Her hand stayed wrapped around his arm for three full seconds, long enough for him to feel the heat of her palm through the thin flannel, long enough for him to notice her nails were chipped, stained with ink from stamping library books. He found himself telling her about the Jon boat, how he’d replaced the entire floor himself, how he’d tuned up the old trolling motor so it would run quiet enough not to scare the bass in the back coves. He didn’t even notice when the fire chief got on stage to start the raffle drawings.
When they called her raffle number, she whooped so loud half the crowd turned to look. She grabbed his wrist, tugged him up to the stage with her, and when the fire chief handed her the keys to the boat, she turned to Rafe, her face pink from excitement, and asked if he was gonna teach her how to not sink the thing, or if she was gonna have to watch 40 YouTube tutorials to figure it out. Rafe hesitated for half a second, the voice in the back of his head hissing that she’d just get bored, that she’d laugh at his messy shop, that it wasn’t worth the risk. Then he looked at her, grinning, holding the keys like they were a prize far more valuable than a $1,500 boat, and he said he was free next Saturday, he’d bring the bait and the life jackets if she brought the beer. She wrote her number on the back of a raffle ticket, pressed it into his palm, and left with her friends, waving over her shoulder as she walked to her car.
He showed up to the boat ramp 20 minutes early the next Saturday, the Jon boat already hitched to his truck, a cooler of minnows in the bed. She was waiting for him, leaning against her hatchback, a cooler of the hazy IPA he’d mentioned liking at the fish fry at her feet, a paper bag of fried peach pies from the local diner tucked under her arm. He helped her step down into the boat, his hand wrapping around hers, and her fingers laced through his for a beat before she sat down on the bench seat. He pushed off the ramp, the quiet hum of the trolling motor cutting through the sound of crickets and frogs in the cypress trees along the shore. She passed him a peach pie, crumbs sticking to her lower lip when she took a bite of her own. He leaned over, brushed the crumb off with the pad of his thumb, and didn’t pull his hand away when she tilted her chin up to meet him.
