Elroy Mendez, 52, vintage fishing reel restorer, has spent the last eight years structuring his days to avoid unnecessary interaction. His wife Lila died in a car crash coming home from a weekend trip to visit her sister, and ever since, he’s stuck to the same rigid routine: wake at 6, brew strong Cuban coffee, sand and re-lubricate customer reels until 5, feed the feral tabby that hangs around his converted garage shop, eat a frozen dinner on the couch, fall asleep to 90s baseball reruns. He only agreed to come to the local oyster bar’s annual charity shuck-off because his 16-year-old niece Marisol begged him—she’d joined her high school FFA team, and they were competing to raise money for the county food bank. He’d planned to stand in the back, drink one cheap domestic beer, cheer loud enough for Marisol to spot him, and slip out before any old acquaintances could corner him to ask how he’s “holding up.”
That plan falls apart ten minutes after he arrives. The house band is playing a loud, twangy cover of a George Strait deep cut, the air smells like brine, grilled andouille sausage, and charcoal, and his work boots are already sticky with spilled lager. He’s leaning against a weathered cedar post, scrolling through pictures of a 1962 Penn International a client sent him to restore, when he feels a soft shoulder brush his bicep. He looks up, and it’s Clara, his next door neighbor of three months. He’s only ever waved at her over the six-foot wooden fence that separates their back yards, caught glimpses of her hauling potted palm trees into her nursery truck at 7 a.m., heard her singing off-key to 90s pop while she waters her backyard garden. She’s got on a faded blue linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a smudge of potting soil on her left cheek, salt crusted in the ends of her wavy auburn hair from the morning beach run he’d seen her leave for hours earlier.
“You hiding over here?” she yells over the music, leaning in so he can hear her, her face so close he can smell coconut shampoo and the faint, sweet scent of jasmine from the plants she tends all day. He freezes for half a second, unused to anyone being that close to him on purpose. He’d spent so long building up that wall, telling himself he was fine alone, that the mere proximity makes his chest feel tight, half sharp panic, half a warm, thrumming something he hasn’t felt in years.
“Just avoiding the guy from the bait shop who always wants to show me 47 blurry photos of his last catfish trip,” he yells back, and she laughs, a loud, throaty sound that cuts through the noise. She’s holding a plastic cup of something pink and frothy, and when a group of rowdy college kids pushes past carrying a bucket of raw oysters, she stumbles a little, her hand coming to rest on his forearm to steady herself. Her palm is rough, calloused from hauling terracotta planters and gripping pruning shears, and he can feel the heat of her through the thin flannel of his work shirt. He doesn’t move away.
They talk for 20 minutes, leaning in closer every time the band cranks up the volume, their shoulders brushing every few seconds when someone squeezes past. She teases him about the way he’s always in his garage, blaring old Celia Cruz records so loud she can hear them through her kitchen window, and he teases her about the time she accidentally left a potted snake plant on his front step with a note that said “for the guy who never leaves his house.” He’d thought that was a random kind gesture, had left it on his kitchen counter and watered it every week without thinking too much of it. Now she tells him she’d left it because she’d seen him crying on his porch two days after the anniversary of Lila’s death, and she didn’t know what else to do without overstepping.
That’s when the conflict hits him, sharp and hot. He feels guilty first, like he’s betraying Lila even by standing here talking to another woman, even by enjoying the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when he tells her about the time he tried to repair a cheap plastic reel for a tourist and accidentally broke it so bad he had to give him a free vintage one to make up for it. Half of him wants to make an excuse, leave, go back to his quiet garage where no one can make him feel anything other than the steady, familiar ache of grief. The other half wants to stay, wants to hear more about her native plant nursery, wants to know if she likes the al pastor tacos from the food truck down the street, wants to stop feeling like he’s just going through the motions every day.
The emcee yells that they’re announcing the winning team, and the crowd surges forward, everyone shouting and cheering. Clara grabs his hand to keep from getting knocked into a table stacked with oyster shells, her fingers lacing through his, and he doesn’t let go. He can feel the calluses on her fingers matching his, the rough spots from years of working with his hands on metal reels, hers on wood and plant stems. When they announce Marisol’s team won first place, he cheers so loud his throat hurts, and Clara squeezes his hand, grinning like she’s just as excited as he is.
After the crowd dies down, he still doesn’t let go of her hand. He asks her if she’s hungry, if she wants to go get tacos from that truck down the road, the one that grills pineapple right on the spit with the pork, and she says yes, no hesitation. They walk out to the parking lot together, the cool Gulf coast night air hitting their faces, the sound of the band fading behind them. She stops halfway to his beat-up Ford F-150, kicks a broken oyster shell off the sidewalk with her scuffed work boot, and tells him she’s been waiting for him to stop hiding in his garage for three months, that she didn’t want to push, that she knew he needed time.
He doesn’t say anything for a second, just looks at her, the streetlight catching the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the smudge of potting soil still on her cheek. He squeezes her hand a little tighter, the calluses on his fingers from decades of working on reels catching on the ridges of hers, and he doesn’t say anything, just smiles, because for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel like rushing back to the quiet.
