Manny Ruiz, 53, runs a one-man vintage motorcycle restoration shop out of a cinder block garage in east Austin. He’s held the same grudge for 35 years, ever since his high school girlfriend’s 14-year-old little sister caught them sneaking out to a ZZ Top show and ratted them out to her dad, who showed up at the venue with a shotgun and banned Manny from the property for life. He’d missed his senior spring break trip, lost the girlfriend, and spent a month sanding rust off his dad’s old pickup as punishment, and he never forgot who was to blame. Widowed six years prior, he fills most of his free time hauling his latest restoration project to small-town Hill Country bike shows, where the brisket is cheap, the beer is cold, and no one asks him why he still sleeps on the same side of the bed he shared with his wife.
Mid-October at a show outside Fredericksburg, the air smells like two-stroke exhaust and hickory smoke, and he’s just walked away with first place in the vintage Japanese category for his 1972 CB750, 18 months of late nights and skinned knuckles finally paying off. He heads for the food tent to reward himself with a slice of pecan pie, and turns right into someone carrying a paper plate of loaded nachos, a glob of cheese landing square on the toe of his scuffed work boot.
He’s about to grumble when he looks up. Lena Marquez is 49 now, no longer the pigtailed kid who used to throw water balloons at him from the porch of her parents’ house. Her dark hair is streaked with silver at the temples, she’s wearing a faded Willie Nelson t-shirt and high-waisted jeans, and she’s grinning like she knows exactly who he is. “Took you long enough to recognize me, Manny Ruiz. You still hold grudges so tight you can’t see the person right in front of you?”
He snorts, swipes the cheese off his boot with a napkin she hands him, their fingers brushing for half a second, warm enough that he pulls his hand back like he’s touched a hot exhaust pipe. They grab a spot at a splintered pine picnic table at the edge of the tent, their knees brushing under the table when she shifts to lean forward, and he catches a whiff of her perfume, jasmine mixed with cedar, nothing like the sickly sweet body spray she wore as a teen. They trade barbs for 45 minutes, her teasing him about the terrible mullet he had senior year, him razzing her about the time she tried to dye her hair neon pink and ended up with bright orange roots. She admits she drove out to the show alone, her best friend bailed at the last minute, and she’s looking for old bike parts to turn into wall decor for the vintage linen shop she runs downtown. Her car is parked three miles away at the bed and breakfast she booked for the weekend, she’d walked to the show to save on parking, and the sun’s already dipping low below the oak trees.
He offers her a ride on the CB750 before he can talk himself out of it. She teases him for a full two minutes about how he used to drive 90 miles an hour down backroads with no helmet, before she agrees, and he hands her his extra leather jacket, too big for her, hanging past her hips, the cuffs rolled twice to fit her wrists. When they pull out of the showgrounds, she wraps her arms tight around his waist, her chest pressed warm against his back, her breath fanning the back of his neck through the open collar of his flannel shirt, and he has to remind himself to keep his speed under 40.
He pulls over halfway to her B&B at an overlook he’s stopped at a hundred times before, the hills rolling out below them dotted with oak trees turning burnt orange and deep red, the sky streaked pink and purple from the sunset. They lean against the side of the bike, their shoulders pressed together, and she admits she ratted him out all those years ago not because she was a good kid, but because she had a massive crush on him, was mad he was spending all his time with her sister instead of noticing she existed. Manny laughs, loud enough that a pair of deer grazing 50 yards away lift their heads and bolt, and tells her he had no clue, spent three decades thinking she just hated his guts.
She tilts her head up to look at him, and he can see gold flecks in her dark brown eyes, a faint smudge of pecan pie filling on her lower lip from the bite she stole off his plate earlier. He leans down slow, no rush, kisses her soft, tastes like sweet tea and salted caramel, her hand coming up to rest on the side of his neck, her thumb brushing the stubble on his jaw. When they pull apart, she’s grinning, and he’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt, the grudge he’s carried for 35 years melting away like butter on warm bread.
He rides her the rest of the way to the B&B, walks her to the screen door of her cabin. She tugs on the front of his flannel shirt, asks if he wants to come in for a cup of coffee, says her sister lives in Seattle now, no one to tattle on him this time. He nods, follows her inside, the screen door slamming shut behind them, the sound of crickets chirping fading into the background.
