Manny Ruiz, 53, has spent the last four years covered in sawdust and aluminum shavings, restoring vintage Airstreams in his cinder block shop off the main road of Ashland, Oregon. He doesn’t do crowds. Doesn’t do small talk. His best friend Jim had to physically block his shop door at 6 PM to drag him to the annual summer street fair, muttering that if Manny spent one more night eating frozen bean and cheese burritos and watching 1980s truck repair videos alone, he was gonna start growing moss on the scuffed toes of his 10-year-old Red Wing work boots.
Manny had grumbled the whole three block walk to the fair, hands stuffed in the pockets of his oil-stained flannel, ignoring Jim’s rambling about the new craft beer tent. The air smelled like fried Oreos and cut grass, too loud with the buzz of hundreds of people yelling over each other, and he’d already mapped his escape route back to the shop when the sharp, sweet tang of mango and white vinegar hit his nose. It was the exact scent his late wife Elena used to fill their kitchen with every August, when she’d boil pots of hot sauce to jar and give away to friends for Christmas.
He veered off from Jim without a word, heading straight for the small booth strung with orange fairy lights, a hand-painted wooden sign hanging above the table reading Mango Fire, the same name Elena had scribbled on her homemade jar labels for 20 years. The woman behind the booth was restocking small glass bottles, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, sun freckles scattered across her nose, and when she looked up he recognized her immediately: Lila, Elena’s younger cousin, the one who’d driven up from Sacramento for the funeral, who’d hugged him so tight he thought his ribs would crack, then disappeared before he could even get her number to thank her for the meal she’d dropped off for his family that week.
She grinned, wiping her hands on the thighs of her worn denim overalls, and nodded at his boots. “I knew that beat-up pair would show up eventually. Elena used to send me pictures of you wearing them to Easter dinner, said she’d thrown them out three times and you kept digging them out of the trash.” Manny froze, half embarrassed, half weirdly seen, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to but didn’t entirely mind. He grabbed a corn chip from the sample tray, dipped it in the extra hot habanero blend, and the burn hit the back of his throat exactly right, made his eyes water a little. Lila laughed, passing him a can of cold cherry soda, their fingers brushing for half a second when he took it. Her skin was warm, calloused at the fingertips from gardening, he noticed, the same way Elena’s used to be from working in their vegetable patch.
A group of drunk college kids shouldered past the booth, crowding the small space, and Lila stepped forward to avoid getting knocked into a stack of glass jars, her shoulder pressing firm against his chest for a beat. He could smell jasmine lotion on her, the exact kind Elena used to buy in bulk from the local health food store, and for a second his throat tightened, guilt coiling sharp in his gut. What the hell was he doing, standing here flirting with his dead wife’s cousin? He stepped back fast, mumbled an excuse about needing to find Jim, but Lila leaned against the edge of the table, tilting her head, holding his gaze steady, no teasing left in her smile.
“She woulda yelled at you for hiding away this long, you know. Used to call me every few months before she got sick, saying she was gonna set me up with you if she ever kicked the bucket first. I told her she was being ridiculous, that you’d never look at anyone else. Guess she knew you better than I did.” Manny blinked, he’d never heard that, never had any idea Elena had even thought about what would happen to him after she was gone. He leaned back against the wooden booth post, watched her tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear, and the tight knot of guilt in his chest softened a little, replaced by a warm, fumbling curiosity he hadn’t felt in years.
They talked for 40 minutes, the bluegrass band down the block playing slow Johnny Cash covers, the sky turning pink and hazy purple at the edges as the sun dipped below the hills. She told him she’d moved up to Ashland three months prior, bought a small 5-acre farm on the edge of town, grows all the peppers and mangoes for the sauce herself in a heated greenhouse. He told her about the 1972 Airstream he’s restoring for a couple from Seattle, the one with the original avocado green countertops that Elena would’ve begged him to keep instead of replacing with stainless steel. Every so often their hands brush when they reach for a sample chip, every time she laughs she leans a little closer, her knee pressing to his where they’re both propped against the booth leg, the rough denim of her overalls scraping softly against the worn denim of his jeans.
When the announcement comes over the loudspeaker that the fireworks are starting in ten minutes, Lila wipes a smudge of habanero sauce off her cheek, nods toward the dirt path leading down to the river. “You wanna go watch? I brought a wool blanket, we can sit on the old stone wall by the boat ramp. No crowds there, just the water.” Manny hesitates for two full seconds, the voice in his head screaming that this is wrong, that he’s betraying Elena’s memory by even considering it, but then he looks at Lila, her eyes bright in the orange glow of the fairy lights, and he nods.
They walk the three blocks to the river, the crowd thinning out the further they get from the main street, the distant noise of the fair fading behind them. The grass is still damp from the afternoon rain, crickets chirping loud in the brush along the path, and Lila hums a Johnny Cash song under her breath the whole way, the same one Elena used to sing when she was cooking. She spreads the plaid wool blanket on the flat top of the stone wall, sits down, patting the spot next to her. Manny sits, close enough that their arms brush when he shifts to get comfortable.
The first firework goes off, red and gold, painting the sky over the river bright enough to reflect in the slow moving water, and Lila laces her fingers through his, her palm warm and steady against his. He doesn’t pull away. He can taste the leftover habanero burn on his tongue, hear the distant cheers from the fair, feel the weight of her hand in his, and for the first time in four years, he doesn’t feel guilty for wanting to stay.
