Manny Rocha, 62, retired high school auto shop teacher, had no intention of staying longer than 90 seconds at the West Boise block party. He’d spent the last three hours canning the pickled jalapeños his wife Lena had perfected before her lung cancer diagnosis eight years prior, and the only reason he’d dragged himself out of his garage where he was rebuilding a 1972 Ford F150 was to drop the jar off for the potluck and bolt. The crowd pressed close, kids screaming as they chased each other with water guns, the scent of grilled carne asada and burnt sugar from the cotton candy stand sticking to the dry late August air.
He’d almost made it to the folding table stacked with casserole dishes when a shoulder brushed his, hard enough to make him fumble the glass jar. “Whoa, easy there,” a warm, low voice said, and a hand wrapped around his wrist to steady the jar before it slipped. He knew who it was before he looked up: Lila Marquez, the 58-year-old part-time travel book editor who’d moved into the blue bungalow three doors down three months prior. He’d avoided her every chance he got since she’d dropped off a loaf of sourdough on his porch in June, and he’d hidden behind his garage door until she left, too flustered to answer. He’d thought that flutter in his chest had died with Lena, and the fact that it was back made his skin prickle with equal parts disgust and curiosity.
She didn’t step back when he turned to face her, the toe of her white canvas sneakers almost touching his scuffed work boots. Sun gilded the thick silver streak running through her dark wavy hair, and he could smell lavender hand cream mixed with the citrus of the paleta she was holding in her other hand. “I was starting to think you didn’t actually exist,” she teased, tilting her head, her dark eyes holding his longer than polite, no trace of awkwardness when he didn’t answer right away. “I saw you out in your garage last week sanding that old truck. Looks like she’s coming along nice.”
He grunted, shoving his free hand into the pocket of his oil-stained jeans, suddenly hyper aware of the worn gold wedding band on his left ring finger. He’d taken it off exactly once in the last eight years, to fix a carburetor, and had almost had a panic attack when he couldn’t find it for 20 minutes. The idea of even talking to another woman felt like a betrayal, like he was spitting on the 32 years he’d had with Lena, but he couldn’t make himself walk away. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Needs a new transmission still. Slow work.”
She nodded, jerking her chin toward the taco truck idling at the end of the block. “C’mon. I’ll buy you a carnitas taco. They’re using that orange salsa everyone raves about. You look like you haven’t eaten since yesterday.” She didn’t wait for him to answer, just turned and started walking, and he followed before he could talk himself out of it, his boots scuffing the asphalt. The crowd shifted around them, and her elbow brushed his bicep every few steps, the light contact sending a jolt up his arm that he tried to ignore.
They sat on a low cinder block wall at the edge of the party, away from the noise, and she handed him a taco wrapped in two corn tortillas, grease seeping through the paper. He ate it in three bites, the salsa burning the back of his throat, and she laughed when he coughed, handing him a can of cold horchata. He noticed she was staring at his left hand, and he curled his fingers into a fist automatically, like he could hide the ring. “Lena died eight years ago,” he said before she could ask. “Lung cancer. Never smoked a day in her life.”
She nodded, picking at a loose thread on her linen shorts, and for a second he thought he’d messed up, that she’d leave him alone like he usually wanted. But then she held out her left hand, and he saw the thin silver band on her ring finger, worn smooth around the edges. “Mark had a heart attack four years ago. Was out hiking, dropped dead before the paramedics could get there. I still forget sometimes, leave a mug out for him in the morning.” Her fingers brushed his when she reached for the jar of jalapeños sitting between them, and he didn’t pull away, the heat of her skin seeping into his, the guilt he’d been carrying for years softening just a little. He’d always thought dating again meant he was forgetting Lena, but it didn’t feel like that right then. It felt like she’d be teasing him for being an idiot for hiding from Lila for three whole months.
They talked for two more hours, until the sun dipped below the oak trees at the end of the block, and the kids were all loaded into minivans, the taco truck packing up. He told her about the F150, how he was planning to drive it up to the Sawtooths once it was done, the trip Lena had been begging him to take before she got sick. She told him about the travel book she was editing about small mountain towns in Idaho, how she’d moved to Boise to do research, tired of living in a cramped Chicago apartment where she couldn’t even see the stars.
When she stood up to leave, she brushed crumbs off her shorts, and smiled at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “You gonna let me ride in that truck when it’s done? Or are you gonna keep hiding from me in your garage?” she asked, and he laughed, a real laugh, the kind he hadn’t let out in years. “I’ll do you one better,” he said. “I’m firing up the engine next weekend to test it. You can come along, if you want. I’ll even teach you how to change the oil, if you’re not scared of getting your hands dirty.”
She held out her hand to shake on it, and he took it, her palm soft but calloused at the fingertips from turning book pages all day, the contact sending that same jolt through him, no guilt attached this time. “Deal,” she said. “But only if you try the peach pie I baked last night. I brought a whole one to the potluck, saved the best slice for you.”
He watched her walk a few steps toward her house, adjusting the strap of her canvas tote slung over her shoulder, and moved fast before he second-guessed himself. He tucked the jar of jalapeños he’d brought for the potluck into the outer pocket of her tote when she wasn’t looking, already looking forward to the burn of the peppers and the sound of her laugh in his garage next Saturday.
