Moe Horvath, 53, vintage fishing reel restorer, stood in the back of the community center parking lot with a paper plate sagging under the weight of fried cod and creamy cole slaw, a lukewarm IPA sweating in his other hand. He’d shown up to the first fully unrestricted Friday fish fry in three years mostly out of habit, not because he cared about catching up with the neighbors—after his wife Lila left him for a real estate agent eight years prior, he’d narrowed his social circle down to three regular customers, his elderly golden retriever, and the guy who ran the bait shop down the road. Grease from a reel he’d been working on that afternoon was still crusted under his fingernails, the flannel he wore dotted with tiny rust stains he’d never bothered to wash out.
A sharp bump to his shoulder sloshed beer over the rim of the can, cold liquid dripping down his wrist. He turned, ready to snap a retort, and froze. She was 48, dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, park ranger patch stitched to the chest of her windbreaker, and he’d only seen her once before, at his wedding 19 years prior, when she’d been 29 and too shy to do much more than nod at him across the reception hall. It was Jules, Lila’s younger cousin, the one who’d moved to town two weeks prior to take over the backcountry patrol route for the state park. She held up a crumpled paper napkin, stepping close enough that he could smell pine, coconut shampoo, and the faint briny tang of ocean wind on her clothes, and dabbed at the beer on his wrist before he could protest. Her knuckles brushed the vein on the inside of his arm, and he felt a jolt he hadn’t felt since the first time he’d kissed Lila, back when they were both too broke to pay their electric bill.
He resisted the urge to step back, every alarm bell in his head blaring that this was a terrible idea—she was family, ex-family, people would talk, he’d spent eight years carefully avoiding anyone tied to his failed marriage, for Christ’s sake. But she grinned, a dimple popping in her left cheek, and said she still had the fishing rod he’d fixed for her at the wedding, the one her ex-boyfriend had snapped over his knee during a fight the week before. He’d forgotten that entirely, the memory surfacing soft and warm, and he laughed before he could stop himself. She gestured to the empty spot on the picnic bench next to him, and he nodded, ignoring the sharp twinge of guilt that pricked at his chest when she sat down, their knees knocking under the table, neither of them shifting away.
For an hour they talked, the noise of the crowd fading into background hum: she told him about the bear that had been raiding campsites in the backcountry, he told her about the guy who’d dropped off a 1952 Penn Reels Special last week that was so rusted he’d had to soak it in vinegar for three days just to get the spool to turn. Their knees kept brushing, her arm would graze his when she reached for a fry off his plate, she held eye contact for a beat longer than strictly polite every time he spoke, like she actually cared about the stupid reel repair stories he usually kept to himself. When she mentioned she’d known Lila had cheated on him six months before he’d found out, that she’d always thought he got a raw deal, the last of his resistance crumbled. The guilt didn’t disappear entirely, but it felt small next to the buzz of excitement in his chest, the way he couldn’t stop smiling for the first time in years.
By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the string lights strung between the oak trees flickered on, most of the crowd had packed up their coolers and left, kids’ laughter from the nearby playground replaced by the distant crash of waves on the pier. She asked if he wanted to walk down to the water with her, and he said yes without thinking. The boardwalk was splintered under his boots, the air cool enough that he could see his breath when he exhaled, and when a big wave crashed against the pilings, they both reached for the same rail to steady themselves, their hands brushing. He didn’t pull away, and she laced her fingers through his, her palm calloused from years of hiking and hauling gear, warm even through the chill. He could hear the low rumble of a crab boat heading out to sea, the distant cry of a seagull, her breath hitching a little when he squeezed her hand.
When they walked back to his beat-up 2004 Ford F-150 ten minutes later, he asked if she wanted to come see his shop, the one he ran out of his garage, show her the 1952 Penn he’d been working on. She said yes, no hesitation, and when he opened the passenger door for her, she paused, tilting her chin up, and he kissed her soft, tasting the lemonade she’d been drinking and the faint tang of menthol cigarette she must have snuck before she walked over to him. He got in the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the old radio kicked on a 1998 Tim McGraw song he hadn’t heard since his wedding reception. He reached over, rested his hand on her knee, and she covered it with hers, her thumb brushing over the rust stain on the cuff of his flannel.
