Ray Espinoza, 62, retired citrus grove manager, perched on the scuffed vinyl bar stool at Sharky’s Tiki Hut, squeezing a wedge of lime into his salt-free margarita so hard the pulp oozed between his calloused fingers. The place smelled like fried conch, coconut rum, and damp plywood left out to dry after Hurricane Idalia’s blowthrough two weeks prior, every table packed with locals trading stories of downed oak trees and flooded bait shops, the jukebox spitting out old George Strait cuts so loud the plastic cups rattled on the bar top. He’d been coming here every Friday for seven months straight, never stayed longer than two drinks, never talked to anyone longer than a quick nod and a comment on the weather. He’d moved to Port Richey to be left alone, after all, to outrun the guilt that had clung to him like orange grove dust since his best friend Manny died in a 2008 storm accident, the weight of it that had chased his ex-wife out the door seven years later, that had landed him in the ER with a mild heart attack two years back.
She slid into the empty stool next to him so fast her shoulder brushed his sunburnt bicep, and he froze before he even looked over. He knew that scent: coconut sunscreen mixed with the faint, sharp tang of vet clinic antiseptic, the same smell he’d remembered on Manny’s little sister Jo when she’d come out to the grove as a teenager to bring them cold beer on hot summer afternoons. He’d not seen her in 12 years, not since Manny’s funeral, but he’d spotted her around town the past month, walking rescue dogs down the beach, loading crates into the back of her beat-up Ford F-150, and he’d ducked around corners or ducked into convenience stores to avoid her. She was off limits, had been since he was 21 and she was 17, Manny threatening to break his jaw if he so much as looked at her like that. Even now, at 58, with a streak of silver running through her dark wavy hair and laugh lines fanning out from the corners of her hazel eyes, that rule felt carved in stone.
She flagged down the bartender, ordered a rum and diet, then turned to him, her knee brushing his under the bar, warm through the frayed denim of his work jeans. “You’re still drinking that salt-free garbage, huh?” she said, grinning, and her voice was the same, low and rough, like she smoked a pack a day even though he knew she’d quit after college. She held eye contact for two full beats longer than a casual greeting required, and he felt his neck get hot, the way it used to when she’d catch him staring at her across the grove break table decades back. He mumbled something about his doctor banning salt, and she laughed, leaning in a little so her hair brushed his forearm when she tilted her head to hear him over the jukebox. She told him she’d run the local animal rescue for 18 years, had pulled 12 dogs out of flooded homes during the hurricane, had spent three straight nights sleeping on the clinic floor with them to make sure they were okay. She pulled out her phone to show him photos of a litter of golden retriever puppies they’d pulled from a storm drain, her hand brushing his when she passed the device over, her palm calloused from hauling crates and clipping dog nails, and he didn’t pull away.
He told her he’d spent the two weeks after the storm clearing oak branches off elderly neighbors’ roofs, refusing to call a professional even when a 50-pound branch slipped and bruised his ribs. She rolled her eyes, smacking his arm lightly. “Still the same stubborn idiot Manny always said you were,” she said, and the mention of Manny’s name made his chest tight, that old guilt flaring up, telling him he had no business sitting here, flirting with his dead best friend’s little sister, that he didn’t deserve to feel this light, this seen, not when Manny was six feet under because Ray had told him to stay out an hour later to pick that last row of grapefruit. He shifted away from her a half inch, staring at the ice melting in his margarita, and she went quiet for a minute, before she reached out and touched his hand, her fingers wrapping around his wrist gentle, not pushing.
“I know you blame yourself for what happened to Manny,” she said, so quiet he almost didn’t hear her over the noise of the bar. “He told me, the week before he died, that if anything ever happened to him, he wanted me to check on you. Said you were too hardheaded to take care of yourself. I’ve had a crush on you since I was 16, Ray. I waited 42 years for you to stop being an idiot and notice.”
He stared at her, his mouth dry, all the arguments he’d been rehearsing in his head for months melting away. The guilt was still there, faint, but it was drowned out by the buzz of the rum he’d sipped, the warmth of her hand on his wrist, the way she was looking at him like he wasn’t the broken, guilt-ridden mess he saw in the mirror every morning. He didn’t say anything, just laced his fingers through hers, and she smiled, squeezing his hand tight.
They finished their drinks an hour later, walking out to her truck in the fine, misty Gulf rain that smelled like salt and wet mangroves. She stopped at the passenger door, leaning up to kiss him quick first, then deeper, her lips tasting like rum and key lime pie, her arms wrapping around his neck, and he pulled her close, his hands on her waist, not overthinking it, not feeling guilty, just present. She pulled back, grinning, wiping the rain off her cheek with the back of her hand. “You wanna come over to meet the puppies? They’re real cuddly,” she said, and he nodded, no hesitation. He held the passenger door open for her, the salt air stinging his cheeks, and for the first time in 15 years, he didn’t feel guilty for wanting something good.
