Manny Ruiz, 53, has built custom fishing rods out of his converted garage workshop on Florida’s Forgotten Coast for 18 years. He’s stubborn to a fault, still sleeps on the same side of the bed he shared with his wife before her 2017 cancer death, and hasn’t attended a single town community event in four years, convinced everyone around him just wants to pat his shoulder and ask if he’s “holding up okay.” He only agreed to show up to the annual fall oyster roast because his childhood buddy Jimmie offered him a case of limited-edition hazy IPA he couldn’t order online, no strings attached.
He’s leaned against the cinder block edge of the roasting pit, flannel sleeves rolled up to show forearms crisscrossed with fine epoxy scars and resin caked under his fingernails, when he spots her. Lila Marlow, 41, the new county public health inspector who shut down his favorite roadside taco stand three weeks prior over a minor pipe leak he swore was “no big deal.” He’d filed a formal complaint against her the next day, and hadn’t stopped complaining about “overreaching bureaucrats” to anyone who would listen since. She’s wearing a faded denim jacket, scuffed cowboy boots, no obvious makeup, holding a paper plate piled high with shucked oysters, and she’s walking straight for him.
He tenses, ready to snap a sarcastic comment about shutting down small businesses for fun, when she grins, holds up a tiny jar of homemade habanero hot sauce, and says she heard he’s the only guy within 20 miles who can handle heat that doesn’t come from a roasting pit. The banter comes easier than he expects, sharp and playful, no pity, no questions about his wife, just back and forth about the taco stand, the terrible cover band playing by the picnic tables, the way half the town’s oyster shuckers are one wrong move away from an ER trip with a shell splinter in their palm. She leans in when he tells a story about a client who tried to use one of his custom rods to reel in a discarded lawnmower, her shoulder brushing his, and he catches the scent of cedar shampoo and salt air on her hair, warm under the cool October breeze. When she passes him a plastic fork to try an oyster slathered in her hot sauce, their fingers brush, and he feels a jolt up his arm he hasn’t felt in close to a decade.
He’s torn so sharply he almost takes a step back. He’s spent six years convincing himself he’s done with anything that feels like romance, done with letting anyone get close, and he’s supposed to hate this woman, for chrissakes, she shut down his go-to Tuesday lunch spot. But she’s laughing at his dumb lawnmower joke like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all week, and when a group of kids sprint past chasing a stray dog, she stumbles back into his chest, stays pressed there for half a second too long, looking up at him with dark, warm eyes, and he doesn’t push her away. She admits she’s already working on a waiver for the taco stand owner, the pipe leak is fixed, she just needed to follow protocol, and she’s been trying to track him down for weeks anyway: her dad left her a beat-up 1972 surf rod when he passed last year, and everyone in town says he’s the only person who can restore it right.
He makes a half-hearted protest about his schedule being packed, but when she tilts her head, grinning, and says she’ll bring a dozen al pastor tacos from the stand to his workshop when she drops the rod off, he caves before he can think better of it. He tosses and turns half that night, half furious at himself for even considering letting someone new in, half replaying the weight of her against his chest, the sound of her laugh, the way she didn’t look at him like he was a broken thing that needed fixing. He feels guilty, like he’s betraying his wife’s memory, but when he walks out to his workshop the next morning, he clears off the workbench for the first time in two weeks, and leaves the front door propped open.
She shows up 10 minutes early, rod slung over her shoulder, a paper bag of warm tacos in one hand, the same jar of hot sauce peeking out of her jacket pocket. He steps aside to let her in, and when she passes him the taco bag, her fingers brush his again, slow this time, deliberate, no pretense of accident. He doesn’t pull away, nods at the stool by the workbench, and tells her to share everything she remembers about her dad’s old rod.
