Javier Mendez is 52, runs a custom fishing rod shop out of his cinder block garage on the edge of central Florida’s Lake Apopka, and hasn’t willingly attended a community event since his wife Linda died of breast cancer three years prior. His biggest flaw, the one he’d never admit to out loud, is that he’d rather hole up sanding rod blanks till his hands cramp than let anyone see how damn lonely he gets, even his own adult daughter. He only showed up to the fire department’s annual chili cookoff because his 78-year-old next door neighbor had begged him for three weeks straight to enter his smoked jalapeño batch, saying it was the only thing that stood a chance at beating the fire chief’s over-salted, bean-heavy slop.
He’d won third place, collected a $25 gift card to the local bait shop, and was already halfway to his beat-up Ford F-150 when his work boot caught on a loose tent stake. He stumbled, spilled half his chili down the front of his faded work flannel, and landed half a foot from where Lila Marquez was leaning against a splintered picnic table, sipping a can of Busch Light. She laughed, not the sharp, mocking kind he was used to from people who saw him as the reclusive widower who never talked to anyone, soft and warm, crinkles fanning out at the corners of her hazel eyes. She held out a crumpled paper napkin, and when he reached for it, their knuckles brushed, a static jolt shooting up his forearm that he hadn’t felt since he was 16 and kissed Linda for the first time at the high school homecoming dance.
Lila was 40, the new county park ranger, and everyone in town had been avoiding her like she had the plague for the last two months, ever since she finalized her messy divorce from Todd Carter, the sheriff’s deputy who’d made a habit of writing Javier speeding tickets on the back roads just because he thought Javier’s custom truck was “too loud.” Todd had grown up in the town, had half the local government in his back pocket, so everyone took his side, even the people who knew he’d cheated on Lila with a secretary from the county clerk’s office. Javier never cared much for picking sides, so he stayed, leaning against the picnic table across from her, picking chili out of his flannel pocket while they talked.
They traded stories about the best bass spots on the lake, him telling her about the 12 pounder he’d caught off the north park pier last spring, her telling him she’d just stocked that pier with 500 pounds of minnows the week before. When she leaned in to point at a hidden cove on the crumpled trail map she had tucked in her pocket, her elbow brushed his bicep, warm through the thin flannel, and she held eye contact for a beat longer than polite, like she was checking if he minded. He didn’t. When he offered her a bite of the remaining chili in his bowl, their fingers brushed again on the plastic spoon, and he smelled coconut shampoo and citrus on her hair, mixed with the faint smell of pine from the park trails she patrolled all day.
The crowd thinned out as the sun dipped low, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and dusty rose, and no one stopped to say goodbye to Lila, not even the other park employees who’d showed up an hour earlier. Javier didn’t overthink it, just asked her if she wanted to ride out to the north pier after, watch the sunset, he had a six pack of IPAs in his truck cooler. She paused for half a second, like she was waiting for him to laugh and say he was joking, then nodded, grabbing her hat off the table.
They drove separately, Javier following her beat-up Jeep down the dirt road to the pier, dust kicking up behind both vehicles, crickets already chirping in the palmetto bushes lining the road. When they got to the pier, he grabbed the cooler, and they walked out to the end, leaning against the weathered rail, their shoulders pressed tight together, no space between them. The lake water lapped soft at the wooden pilings below, and a group of ibises flew overhead, squawking soft as they headed for their roosts. He reached over slowly, like he was approaching a skittish bass, and laced his fingers through hers. She didn’t pull away, just squeezed his hand tight, calloused from hauling trail maintenance equipment, warm against his.
She told him she’d been wanting to stop by his shop for months to ask him to build her a custom rod, had been too scared because everyone in town said he was a grouch who never talked to anyone. He laughed, loud enough that a frog in the reeds below jumped into the water with a soft plop, and told her he’d give her half off, as long as she brought him fresh blackberries from the trailside patches she patrolled when they came in season next month. He leaned down, kissed her slow, the salt from the lake air on her lips, the faint taste of beer on her tongue. A cool breeze off the lake ruffled the edge of her ranger hat, and he brushed a stray strand of sun-bleached hair off her face, smiling when she leaned into his touch.
