Javi Ruiz, 52, has run his vintage motorcycle restoration shop out of a cinder block building on the edge of San Marcos, Texas, for 18 years. His knuckles are permanently smudged with grease, his left ear has a tiny silver stud he got on a dare in 1998, and his biggest flaw is he’d rather spend 12 hours hunched over a rusted carburetor than make small talk with anyone who isn’t here to drop off a bike or pay an invoice. It’s a habit he picked up after his wife died three years prior, when every neighbor and HOA board member seemed determined to corner him at the grocery store, church, or gas station to either offer condolences or pitch him on a date with their single sister, cousin, or friend. He’d taken to avoiding all town events entirely, until the local fire department begged him to donate a custom set of chrome handlebars as the top prize for their annual chili cookoff raffle. He couldn’t say no—his older brother had been a firefighter for 25 years—so he showed up at the town square at 4 p.m., wearing a faded flannel and scuffed work boots, nursing a lukewarm Shiner Bock he’d grabbed from the volunteer tent, already planning his escape route.
He was halfway to his truck when someone slammed into his left side, hard enough that half his beer sloshed over the rim of the can onto his shirt. He bit back a curse, then looked down, and froze. It was Elara Voss, the 47-year-old librarian who’d moved to town six months prior, the woman every single one of his meddling neighbors had been trying to set him up with for the last four. She was holding a wobbly tray of cornbread slices, a streak of chili grease on her left cheek, her silver hoop earrings glinting in the golden hour sun, her nails chipped the same navy blue as the 1967 Ford Mustang he’d restored for his wife back when they were dating. “I am so sorry,” she said, laughing a little like she was flustered, reaching out to brush the beer off his flannel before she thought better of it, her fingertips brushing the skin of his chest just above the unbuttoned top of his shirt. He flinched first, out of habit, then caught the scent of her perfume: vanilla and lemon Pledge, the same combination his grandma used to wear when she’d help him polish his first dirt bike when he was 12.
He was ready to mumble a polite excuse and bolt when she said she’d been looking for him, actually, and pulled a stack of tattered 1970s motorcycle repair manuals out of her canvas tote, the spines held together with packing tape. “Someone donated these last week,” she said, holding them out, and their fingers brushed when he reached to take them, a sharp, warm jolt shooting up his arm that he hadn’t felt in years. “I pass your shop every morning when I walk my golden retriever, and I always see the bikes lined up out front. Figured you’d get more use out of them than the kids looking for graphic novels.”
He’d spent months telling himself dating again would be wrong, that it would feel like a betrayal of his wife, that the entire town would be whispering about them behind their backs before they even had a first date. But when she sat down on the edge of a splintered picnic table away from the crowd, patting the spot next to her, he didn’t argue. They split a bowl of brisket chili she’d grabbed from the fire department booth, her knee brushing his every time she shifted to take a bite, and she admitted she’d been avoiding the same HOA ladies he hated, sick of them pushing her to go out with “the nice widower who fixes bikes” like they were casting a high school play. He laughed, a real, unforced laugh that made his chest feel loose, and admitted he’d noticed her walking her dog past his shop every morning, liked that she wore beat-up white Converse with her work dresses instead of the sensible heels most of the town’s professional women wore.
The raffle announcer called his name over the crackling speakers, telling him to come up to present the top prize, but he didn’t move right away. He asked her if she wanted to come by his shop after the cookoff, that he had a 1972 Honda CB750 he was halfway through restoring, and she could see exactly how he’d use those old manuals. She grinned, wiping a crumb of cornbread off her chin, and said she’d love that, as long as he let her bring the rest of the cornbread tray. He nodded, reaching out to brush a stray crumb that was stuck to her lower lip, his thumb brushing the soft skin there for half a second before he pulled his hand back.
