Manny Ruiz, 53, makes his living patching rust out of vintage campers and tuning up decades-old propane systems out of a cinder block workshop off a dirt road outside Flagstaff. He’s got a scar curling over his left eyebrow from a 1992 backcountry skiing wreck, a habit of chewing peppermint gum when he’s nervous, and two hard rules he’s lived by since his ex-wife left him for a 28-year-old realtor six years prior: no dating anyone more than 10 years his junior, and no speaking to anyone related to Jimmie Hargrove, the guy who pulled his singlet to steal the 1988 Arizona 3A state wrestling title, and still posts the grainy match clip to his Facebook page every anniversary.
He’s at the annual Coconino County fall chili cookoff on a crisp October Saturday, his award-winning green chile simmering in a dented cast iron pot on the folding table in front of him, a half-drunk Modelo sweating in his hand. The air smells like pine smoke, roasted cumin, and burnt hot dogs from the food truck parked near the entrance. He’s laughing at a story his buddy from the volunteer fire department is telling about a cat stuck in a tree, when he sees her out of the corner of his eye.
Lena Hargrove, 39, the new park ranger who moved into the cabin three miles down the road from his shop three months prior, is leaning against the next table over, her wide-brimmed ranger hat pushed back on her head, sun streaks cutting through her dark brown hair, fitted red flannel pulled tight across her shoulders. She’s laughing at something the 4-H kid running the corn dog stand said, her head thrown back, and Manny’s throat goes tight. He’s avoided her for months, ducking behind his work trucks when she drives past, pretending he’s not home when she dropped off a trespassing notice last month after he left a pile of scrap metal too close to the national forest boundary. He’s got no beef with her, not really, but old grudges die hard, and the 14 year age gap makes his chest feel tight with a mix of guilt and unwanted interest.
He turns to grab a sample cup for an elderly woman waiting in line, and when he looks back, she’s standing right in front of him. She’s close enough that he can smell pine resin and vanilla lip balm on her, the scuffed toes of her work boots six inches from his. “Heard your green chile’s the only one here worth eating,” she says, holding out a paper cup, her dark eyes steady on his, no hint of awkwardness. He grunts, scoops a serving into the cup, and passes it to her, his knuckles brushing hers for half a second. The contact makes his skin prickle.
She takes a bite, hums low in her throat, and nods. “Tastes as good as my dad said it would. He still talks about that time you brought a pot to the post-wrestling tournament potluck in ‘87. Said he’s still mad he didn’t get the recipe before you two stopped talking.” Manny freezes, his grip on his beer tightening. “He also says he cheated at that state match. Pulled your singlet when the ref was looking the other way. Says he’s been meaning to apologize for 35 years but was too much of a coward.”
He can’t think of anything to say, so he just stares at her, the cookoff noise fading to a low hum. She steps a little closer, her shoulder almost brushing his, and smirks. “I know you’ve been avoiding me. I see you duck behind your trucks when I drive past. Thought you were just a grumpy old hermit until my dad told me who you were.” She nods at the Airstream photo taped to his table. “I’ve been staring at that thing through the trees for months. I’ll be at your shop at 8. Don’t lock the gate.” She taps his chest twice with her index finger, winks, and disappears into the crowd.
He stands there for three minutes, the cold beer in his hand, the first-place trophy the emcee tries to hand him forgotten. He packs up an hour early, turns down three invites to go to the bar after the cookoff, drives back to his shop at a steady 30 miles an hour, his mind racing. He pulls the tarp off the Airstream, flicks on the string lights he strung up inside the week prior, brews a pot of strong cowboy coffee on the camp stove outside, and leans against the trailer to wait. He checks his watch at 7:58, sees her ranger truck’s headlights turn down his dirt road, and spits his peppermint gum into the dirt.
