Manny only showed up to the block party because 7-year-old Javi from next door had tugged on his work shirt that morning, eyes wide, saying he needed Manny on his cornhole team if he was gonna beat the snotty teenagers down the street. Manny had grumbled, said he had a carburetor to rebuild for the widow two blocks over, but he showed up at 6 p.m. sharp, wearing a faded UT Longhorns hat and scuffed steel-toe boots, a cheap lager already cracked in his hand. He hung back by the cooler for an hour, letting Javi take all the credit for their three straight wins, avoiding the pitying looks from neighbors who still asked if he was “holding up okay” eight years out from his wife Elara’s funeral. Manny Ruiz, 62, retired high-voltage lineman, had spent 38 years climbing 40-foot transmission towers in lashing rain and sweltering Texas heat, and he’d rather face a live 12,000-volt line than answer prying questions about his love life.
He was reaching for a second beer when a soft shoulder bumped his, not the bony shoulder of the retired elementary school teacher who’d been badgering him to join the neighborhood watch. He turned, and it was Lila Marquez. He’d know that low, throaty laugh anywhere, the same one she used to crack at all the dumb crew jokes back when her ex-husband Ray was his foreman in the 2010s. She’d moved into the blue bungalow three doors down two weeks prior, he’d spotted her unloading boxes of books for her mobile bookstore truck from behind his garage door, but he’d ducked out of sight every time she waved, too awkward to say hi, too aware that Ray had been his boss, that Lila had been unspoken off-limits even now that they’d been divorced six years. She was wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded Willie Nelson tee, her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, a smudge of ink on her left cheek. She leaned in to yell over the mariachi band someone set up on the curb, her breath fanning warm across his ear, coconut sunscreen and vanilla candle wax clinging to her clothes. “I knew that was you. Ray always said you could spot a lineman from a mile off by the way you stand like you’re still bracing against 40-mile-an-hour winds.”
His neck heated up, a flustered flush he hadn’t felt since he was a 20-year-old apprentice getting chewed out for forgetting his safety harness. He offered her a hard seltzer from the cooler, their fingers brushing when she took it, her soft skin catching on the rough calluses covering his palm. They talked for an hour, standing so close their elbows kept knocking when they gestured, the noise of the party fading to background hum. She asked about the thick, silvery scar slashing across his left bicep, her hand brushing it lightly when he told her he got it during Hurricane Harvey, holding a spliced line steady for three hours in lashing rain so a nursing home could get power back. The contact sent a jolt up his arm, not the sharp, searing jolt of high voltage, something softer, warmer, that settled low in his gut. He hated himself for it at first, angry that he was even noticing how her eyes crinkled when she laughed, that he was remembering the way she’d brought him extra tamales at crew cookouts when Elara was going through chemo. He’d promised himself he’d never so much as look at another woman after Elara died, never mind someone tied to his old crew, someone who’d been married to his friend.
But Lila laughed at his story about the raccoon that nested in a transformer and took out half the west side, she remembered he hated pickles on his burger, she pulled a dog-eared copy of *Lonesome Dove* out of her canvas tote, said she found it when she was cleaning out her truck, remembered he’d mentioned it was his favorite at a 2011 holiday cookout. The party died down around 10, Javi’s mom dragged the yawning kid off to bed, the mariachi band packed up their trumpets and guitars. Lila said she didn’t feel like going home to her half-unpacked boxes, asked if he wanted to walk back to his place and see that carburetor he’d rambled about earlier. He hesitated for two full beats, his brain screaming that this was a bad idea, that he was breaking some unspoken crew code, that he was gonna end up hurt worse than any line fall could leave him. But then she looked up at him, her dark eyes glinting in the string lights strung between the oak trees, and he nodded.
They walked slow down the sidewalk, their shoulders brushing the whole way, crickets chirping loud in the underbrush. When they got to his porch, she stopped, turned to him, and said she’d had a crush on him since the first time she saw him carry a 60-pound transformer up a ladder like it was a grocery bag. He didn’t say anything, just leaned down, kissed her soft and slow, her lips tasting like lime and seltzer, her hand coming up to rest warm on the scar on his bicep through his thin cotton work shirt. He fumbled with his porch key, unlocked the front door, held it open for her. She stepped inside, pausing to glance at the framed photo of Elara on the entryway table, smiling softly before she turned back to him, her fingers brushing the frayed waistband of his work jeans. The screen door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the hum of the distant streetlights, and he laced his calloused fingers through hers, pulling her further into the dark living room.
