Manny Ruiz, 59, spent 28 years behind the wheel of an 18-wheeler before retiring to make smoked beef jerky out of his converted garage outside La Grande, Oregon. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a tire blowout outside Amarillo in ‘07, a beagle named Red that rides shotgun everywhere, and a strict rule: no small talk, no favors, no letting anyone get close enough to ask for more than a $12 bag of teriyaki jerky. It’s a rule he’s stuck to for 12 years, ever since his wife packed her bags and left for her high school sweetheart while he was on a run to Buffalo.
The Saturday farmers market is wrapping up, rain spitting cold enough to turn the grass under his booth to slop. He’s kneeling by the tailgate of his dented 2008 F150, stacking crates of jerky, when he hears the squelch of rubber boots on mud behind him. He doesn’t need to turn around to know it’s Clara, the woman who runs the wild honey booth two spots over. He’s avoided her for three months straight, ever since the market manager joked they’d make a good “blue collar power couple” and half the regulars started placing bets on when he’d ask her out.
She leans against the tailgate next to him, close enough that he can smell lavender shampoo mixed with rain on her wool flannel and the faint, sweet tang of clover honey clinging to her sleeves. Her arm brushes his when she sets a mason jar of honey and a chipped thermos on the metal between them, and he yanks his hand back like he touched a hot smoker rack. He expects her to flinch, or get huffy, but she just huffs a soft laugh, wiping a strand of gray-streaked bangs off her forehead that’s stuck there from the rain.
“Figured you’d be frozen solid out here,” she says, holding his gaze steady, no teasing edge to her voice. “Thermos has spiked apple cider. No strings. I saw Red panting in the cab, too, brought a honey oat treat for him. He’s been giving me sad eyes all day.”
Manny freezes. He’s spent three months assuming she was only being nice to get a cut of his jerky profits, or to get him to promote her honey on his social media, which has a weirdly big following of jerky fanatics across the Pacific Northwest. He’d been disgusted with himself half the time he caught himself staring at her across the market, at the way her jeans fit just right, at the callus on her index finger from twisting honey lids 12 hours a day, at the way she laughs so hard she snorts when the kid who runs the pickle booth tells bad jokes. He’d told himself a dozen times he was too old for this, too set in his ways, too tired of getting burned to even entertain the idea of talking to her for more than 10 seconds.
He reaches for the thermos, slow, like he’s waiting for her to pull it away and demand something in return. Their fingers brush when he wraps his hand around the warm plastic, and he doesn’t yank back this time. He can feel the rough edge of that callus on her finger against his knuckle, and it sends a jolt up his arm that has nothing to do with the cold rain.
“Chili’s been simmering on my stove since 5 a.m.,” he says, before he can talk himself out of it. “Got cornbread in the oven too. If you don’t got anywhere to be.”
Her smile is soft, no victory lap, no smug “I knew you’d come around” look. She just nods, lifting the jar of honey off the tailgate and tucking it into her canvas bag. “I like chili with a little honey drizzled on top, actually.”
He holds the passenger door open for her, then lets Red jump into the back seat before climbing behind the wheel. The truck rumbles to life, heat blowing out the vents, and when he turns onto the dirt road leading back to his property, she rests her hand on his forearm for half a second, just light enough to let him know she’s there, no pressure. He doesn’t flinch. He can feel the warmth of her hand through the worn canvas of his work coat, and it’s better than any feeling he’s had since he was 20, driving cross country with his wife in the passenger seat, before the road ate up all their time together.
They pull into his driveway 10 minutes later, and Red comes bounding out of the back seat the second he opens the door. Clara kneels down in the mud to give him the honey oat treat, laughing when Red licks a streak of honey off her chin. Manny leans against the porch rail, watching her, and he realizes the wall he spent 12 years building isn’t quite as solid as he thought. He pops the lid off the jar of honey she brought, dips his index finger in, and tastes it. It’s sweeter than he expected, warm, like summer afternoons he thought he’d forgotten. He tucks the jar under his arm, walks over to where she’s still playing with Red, and holds out his hand to help her up.
