Manny Ruiz is 53, has run his custom fishing rod shop out of a cinder block building off Pensacola’s Nine Mile Road for 22 years. The calluses on his palms are so thick he can hold a sanding belt mid-spin without flinching, and he hasn’t attended a single community event since his wife Elara died three years prior—unless his old high school buddy Javi, now a county fire marshal, physically shows up at his shop door and drags him. This year’s fire department fish fry was no exception. Javi had shown up at 4 PM with a six-pack of Manny’s favorite lager, reminded him he’d donated a top-shelf inshore rod for the auction, and said if he didn’t show to present it to the winner, the whole department would show up at his shop next week and eat all his lunch meat. Manny caved, even if he complained the entire drive over.
The fry was held in the field behind the fire station, string lights strung between oak trees, the air thick with the smell of fried catfish, charcoal, and cheap vanilla ice cream. Manny hung back by the beer tent for the first hour, leaning against a wooden post, half watching the kids bounce on the inflatable obstacle course, half scrolling through old order forms on his phone to avoid small talk. That’s when she stepped up next to him. He recognized her immediately: Lena, the new county coastal park ranger who’d showed up at his shop two months prior asking about a beginner rod for her 14-year-old son, who’d just gotten into surf fishing. He’d been short with her that day, halfway through a tricky custom build for a client flying in the next morning, had handed her a pre-made rod off the rack and all but pushed her out the door before she could ask follow-up questions.
She was in her uniform, name tag pinned to the chest, grass stains on the knee of her cargo pants, a smudge of dirt on her jaw that looked like it came from fixing a broken park fence earlier that day. She reached past him for a can of IPA from the cooler, her shoulder brushing his bicep, the coconut-pineapple sunscreen she was wearing wrapping around him soft enough to make him pause mid-scroll. “Thought that was you,” she said, leaning against the post next to him, their elbows only an inch apart now. “Tried to ask you about custom grip sizes last time I stopped by your shop. You acted like I was trying to sell you a timeshare.” Manny huffed a laugh, surprised he didn’t immediately make an excuse to leave. He apologized, told her he’d been swamped that day, and she waved it off, said she’d heard he was the best in the Panhandle, she was willing to be persistent.
They talked for 20 minutes straight before Manny even realized he’d stopped checking his phone. She knew more about redfish migration patterns and water salinity levels than most of the regulars who hung out in his shop, and when she made fun of the fire department’s terrible, vinegary coleslaw, he laughed so hard he spilled a little beer on his work boot. When she passed him a paper plate with a hushpuppy on it, their fingers brushed, and he felt the hard callus on her index finger, the same kind he had, from gripping a work tool for 10-hour shifts every day. The guilt hit him sharp right after, the old familiar voice in his head saying he shouldn’t be enjoying this, shouldn’t be leaning in a little closer when she talked, shouldn’t be noticing how her eyes crinkle at the corners when she teases him. He was halfway to making an excuse to leave when the auction started, Javi calling him up to the front to present the rod he’d donated.
He stood on the rickety wooden stage, held up the rod he’d spent 12 hours on, wrapped in blue and silver thread—Elara’s favorite colors—and told the crowd it could handle a 30-pound redfish no problem. Bids started at $100, jumped up fast, and when the dust settled, Lena was the highest bidder, grinning up at him from the front row. He handed her the rod after, told her she didn’t have to bid that much, he would have made her one for half the price if she’d just come back to the shop. She shook her head, twirling the rod in her hand like she knew exactly how to handle it. “I wanted to make sure you couldn’t brush me off again,” she said, and the way she was looking at him, no pity, no awkwardness, just warm, unhurried interest, made the guilt in his chest loosen enough that he didn’t fight it.
He stayed for the rest of the event, sat next to her at the splintered picnic table, shared a serving of cherry cobbler, their knees knocking under the table every time one of them shifted. She told him her son was free the following Wednesday to come get fitted for his own custom rod, scribbled her cell number on a crumpled napkin, dotted the i with a little heart, and slid it across the table to him. He didn’t hesitate to take it. He walked her to her truck when the sun started to go down, the string lights coming on all around them, the sound of firemen laughing as they packed up the fryers. He didn’t kiss her, didn’t push anything, just told her he’d be in the shop all afternoon Wednesday, they could test out the new rod off the pier behind his shop after the fitting if she wanted. She said she’d bring homemade coleslaw, prove to him it didn’t have to taste like pickled vinegar.
He tucks the napkin with her number into the breast pocket of his work shirt, already making a mental note to wipe down the fitting bench and pick up a pack of the cherry Sour Patch Kids her son mentioned he liked before Wednesday.
