Manny Rocha, 62, makes custom fishing rods for a living out of his garage in coastal Newport, Oregon, and he’s avoided every community event within a 20 mile radius for the better part of eight years. The only reason he showed up to the annual seafood festival this year was because his old fishing buddy owed him $120 for a walleye rod, and the guy swore he’d be camped at the beer tent until sundown. Manny’s got a flaw he doesn’t talk about: ever since his wife left him for a Bend real estate agent in 2015, he’s shut down any interaction that even hints at personal connection, convinced any soft spot he shows will just get poked until it bleeds. He’s got his work, his 19 foot Boston Whaler, and a rotation of frozen burritos, and that’s all he’s needed, until he slides into the cracked plastic picnic bench across from the beer tent’s only other solo patron and realizes it’s Lena Marquez.
“Still wearing that tool belt I got you for Christmas 2014?” she says, nodding at the scuffed leather strap peeking out from under his Carhartt jacket. She holds his gaze steady, no quick look away, no polite smile to soften the tease, and Manny feels his face heat up like he’s a 16 year old kid caught staring at the cheerleading squad. He’d forgotten she got him that belt, back when they used to take annual fishing trips up the Columbia, back when his marriage was still intact enough that he didn’t think twice about laughing at her dumb jokes about his ex’s terrible potato salad.
He sits back down. He tells himself it’s just to be polite, that he doesn’t owe his ex anything, that no one they know is even in the beer tent this late. He passes her a peanut from the bowl in front of him, and when her fingers brush his, it’s like the static shock you get off an old truck door in the winter, sharp and bright enough that he almost yanks his hand back. She’s been living in Astoria the past three years, she says, left her alcoholic husband in 2021, got a job running the front desk at a charter fishing company, and she’s been looking for someone to build her a custom salmon rod for months. She’d heard he was still taking orders, but she didn’t want to reach out, figured he’d ignore her on principle.
Manny’s chest pulls tight, half disgust at the idea of crossing the invisible line his ex’s family drew after the divorce, half hungry, unnameable desire he thought he’d buried for good. This is the worst possible idea. His ex will lose her mind if she finds out they’re talking, let alone doing business, the small town gossip mill will spin it into something ugly before the weekend’s over, and he’s worked too hard to build his quiet, predictable routine to throw it all away for a woman who’s technically still family adjacent. But he can’t stop looking at the freckles across her nose, the streaks of silver in her auburn hair that she doesn’t bother dying, the way she laughs so hard at his story about the guy who tried to order a rod painted like a neon hot dog that a snort slips out. The drizzle starts halfway through their second round of IPAs, fat cold drops hitting the back of his neck, and the band packs up their gear, leaving only the hum of conversation from the few remaining festival goers.
She says her car died earlier that day, and her aunt’s place is three blocks from his house, if he wouldn’t mind giving her a ride. He agrees before he can talk himself out of it. His 2004 F-150 smells like pine air freshener and cedar shavings from the rod blanks he hauled that morning, and the heat clicks on sputtering when he turns the key. They sit in the driveway for five minutes after he pulls up to his house, neither of them moving, the sound of the rain hitting the roof loud enough to cover the sound of his heart hammering in his chest. She leans over the center console first, presses a soft kiss to his cheek, then pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. He kisses her back, slow, his hand cupping the side of her face, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t care about the consequences, doesn’t care about the gossip, doesn’t care about all the rules he made for himself to avoid getting hurt.
He fumbles with his front door key when they get out of the truck, his hands a little shaky, and she leans against the porch rail, her jacket dotted with rain, still grinning like she knows exactly what she’s doing. The warm smell of cedar shavings and coffee from his kitchen spills out when he yanks the door open, and he steps aside to let her walk in first.
