Manny Ruiz is 62, a retired air traffic controller who traded the screaming beeps and endless radar screens of Phoenix Sky Harbor for a drafty two-bedroom cottage on Oregon’s coast eight years prior, three weeks after his wife lost her three-year fight with ovarian cancer. His only consistent hobby is pulling rusted vintage outboard motors out of scrap yards and rebuilding them in his garage, and his only regular social interaction is waving at the mail carrier when she drops off parts orders. He’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide, and he’s spent the better part of a decade telling anyone who asks that he’s perfectly fine alone, no need for dinner invites, no need for poker nights, no need for anything that might make him feel like he’s betraying the wife he lost.
He only shows up to the annual Lions Club chili cookoff because his next door neighbor, 78-year-old Marge, tripped over her cat and broke her wrist two days prior, and she begged him to drop off her award-winning green chili entry so she doesn’t lose her three-year winning streak. He plans to drop the crockpot, grab a free root beer, and bolt before anyone can corner him into small talk. He’s halfway to his truck when he turns too fast to avoid a kid chasing a golden retriever, and the cold root beer sloshes over the edge of his paper cup, splattering a single dark drop onto the forearm of the woman standing next to him.
He mumbles an apology, yanking the hem of his well-worn plaid flannel out of his jeans to dab at the spot, and his fingers brush hers when she leans in to tell him it’s no big deal. Her skin is warm, calloused at the knuckles like she works with her hands, and she holds his gaze for two full beats longer than polite small talk requires, the gold flecks in her hazel eyes catching the light from the fire pit strung with fairy lights. He recognizes her immediately: Clara Bennett, the woman who bought the old lighthouse keeper’s cottage three months prior, who runs the tiny used bookstore downtown, who also happens to be the ex-wife of Jake Hale, the county commissioner who’s spent the last six months trying to jack up coastal property taxes to fund a private golf course for his country club buddies, and who tried to fine Manny $200 for having “unsightly scrap” (half-rebuilt outboard motors) in his driveway last spring.
The air between them hums with that quiet, unspoken little thrill of the forbidden, and Manny’s first instinct is to step back, mumble another excuse, and hightail it to his truck. He’s got no interest in small town drama, no interest in getting tangled up with the ex of the most insufferable man within 20 miles. But she’s standing so close he can smell lavender shampoo mixed with the smoky scent of chili and burnt hot dogs from the grill, and she nods at the faded Travis McGee bumper sticker on the back of his worn work truck parked by the curb. “I’ve got a first edition of *The Deep Blue Good-by* in the back room of the shop,” she says, leaning in so he can hear her over the roar of the cornhole crowd cheering a winning throw. “Been holding onto it for someone who’d actually appreciate it, not just flip it on eBay.”
He knows he should say no. He knows he should tell her he’s too busy, that he doesn’t have time to hang around, that he’s not looking for anything. But the thought of that book, the way she’s smiling like she already knows he’s going to cave, the quiet buzz of that stupid little thrill of doing something he’s not supposed to do, it all wins out. He agrees to come out to her cottage the next Saturday to take a look at the 1972 Boston Whaler she’s been trying to get running, no charge, as long as she brings the book.
He shows up 10 minutes early the next day, toolbox slung over his shoulder, and spends two hours tinkering with the outboard, replacing a rusted carburetor and adjusting the fuel line while she sits on the dock swinging her legs, passing him wrenches and telling him stories about how she left Hale after she caught him cheating on her with his 28-year-old admin, how she bought the bookstore and the cottage with her half of the divorce settlement and hasn’t been this happy in 20 years. When he yanks the starter cord and the motor rumbles to life, loud and steady, she cheers so loud a flock of seagulls takes off from the rocks nearby.
They sit on her weathered cedar porch after, drinking iced tea sweetened with local honey, and her bare foot brushes his calf when she shifts in her Adirondack chair. She admits she’s been trying to work up the nerve to talk to him for weeks, ever since she saw him at the town hall meeting last month, the only person in the room who told Hale to his face that the golf course tax was a scam for his rich friends. He admits he avoided her because he’s spent eight years hiding from anything that might make him feel alive again, because he thought wanting something new meant he was betraying his wife.
She leans over then, slow, so he has time to pull away if he wants, and kisses him, her lips soft, tasting like peach lip balm and honeyed iced tea. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t overthink the gossip that might spread if someone sees them, doesn’t overthink the years he spent alone, doesn’t overthink anything for the first time in longer than he can remember.
They take the boat out an hour later, cruising up the coast past the sea stacks dotted with cormorants, and pull into a quiet cove only the locals know about, no other boats in sight, the only sound the crash of the waves and the distant cry of gulls. He tucks a strand of wind-tousled hair behind her ear, and for the first time in almost a decade, he doesn’t wish he was anywhere else.
