Manny Ruiz, 62, retired high school woodshop teacher, leaned his hip against a splintered pine picnic table and stared at the foam line of his IPA, wondering why he’d let his 10-year-old grandson talk him into coming to the fire department’s annual summer beer garden. He hated small town events. Hated the way everyone stared, the way they whispered behind their paper plates, the way they always asked if he was “doing okay” seven years after his wife Linda passed. His flaw ran deep: he’d spent years walling himself off from any interaction that felt even remotely personal, convinced letting anyone new in would be a betrayal of the 38 years he’d had with Linda, and that any hint of interest from another woman would turn into town gossip faster than a grass fire in August.
“Thought that was you,” she said, grinning, and he noticed the little laugh lines fanning out from her hazel eyes, the same ones he’d teased Jake about back when they all ate lunch in the teacher’s lounge together. “Saw your truck in the parking lot. Figured you’d be hiding over here away from everyone.”
He huffed a laugh, surprised at how easy it came. “Guilty. Only here because Javi begged me to buy 20 of his raffle tickets. Says he needs the new gaming console more than the fire department needs new hoses.”
She laughed, loud and bright, and leaned in a little so she could hear him over the band, their shoulders brushing now. He smelled like pine sap and citrus laundry detergent, she smelled like lavender and cut grass and the faint fizz of her seltzer. She held up her left hand, wiggling her fingers, and he saw the faint indent of a wedding ring that she’d stopped wearing six months prior. “I still have that oak birdhouse you made Jake and me for our 20th anniversary, you know. Hung it out in the big oak behind my house. Blue jays nest in it every spring. The roof’s still solid, by the way. You always did know how to cut a miter joint right.”
He blinked, taken aback. He’d forgotten he’d made that. The guilt pricked at him first, sharp and familiar: he shouldn’t be sitting this close to her, shouldn’t be enjoying the way her shoulder pressed against his, shouldn’t be noticing how the golden hour light caught the streaks of auburn in her graying brown hair. He’d spent so long telling himself he didn’t deserve anything that felt good after Linda was gone that the urge to stand up and run was almost overwhelming.
Then she shifted, reaching over to brush a piece of grass off the sleeve of his flannel shirt, and her fingers lingered on his forearm for half a second, soft and warm, and the urge to run faded. He looked around, half expecting someone to stare, but no one was paying attention. The crowd was focused on the band, on the kids chasing a golden retriever across the grass, on their own plates of food and their own conversations. No one cared if he sat next to Clara, no one was whispering about him. The taboo he’d built up in his head for years was just that: something he’d made up, a cage he’d built for himself.
They talked for another 45 minutes, the beer getting warmer in his hand, the sun dipping below the pine trees at the edge of the field, painting the sky pink and orange. She told him about the new batch of old-growth cedar she’d picked up earlier that week, leftover from a barn demolition out in the valley, perfect for small woodworking projects. He told her about the birdhouses he’d been building for the local elementary school, how the kids kept asking for ones with little painted windows and perches big enough for cardinals.
When she stood up to leave, she slung her canvas tote bag over her shoulder, and tilted her head at him, her eyes glinting in the string lights strung above the picnic tables. “If you want that cedar, you can come by the nursery tomorrow around 10. I’ll set it aside for you. No charge. Figure it’s payment for that birdhouse that’s lasted 15 years of rain and wind and squirrels trying to chew through the sides.”
He hesitated for half a second, the old guilt nipping at his heels again, then nodded. “I’ll be there.”
He walked her to her beat-up Toyota Tacoma, their hands brushing a couple times as they walked across the cool, dewy grass, soft and unplanned. When she got to the driver’s side door, she turned to him, and squeezed his hand once, firm and warm, before she climbed in. He stood there in the parking lot, holding his half-empty beer can, watching her taillights fade down the dark country road, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel a single twinge of guilt when he thought about waking up the next morning.
