Manny Ruiz, 53, has run his vintage camper restoration shop out of a converted barn outside Bend, Oregon for seven years, ever since his divorce finalized. His only consistent breaks from sanding aluminum siding and rewiring 1970s refrigerator units are the weekly Sunday farmers market runs, where he grabs sourdough loaves, a pint of wild blackberries, and a spicy jerky stick before heading back to his quiet property. He’s avoided any sort of casual date or even friendly hang outside of work for the entire stretch, convinced any connection will end as messy as his marriage, too stubborn to admit he’s lonely.
The August sun is hanging low, thick with pine scent and the faint tang of smoked brisket from the food truck at the end of the row, when he twists to avoid a kid sprinting with a melting blue raspberry snow cone and bumps shoulder-first into someone holding an iced latte. The cold coffee sloshes over the rim of the cup, dribbling down his left wrist, and the soft press of her cotton tank top against his bicep lingers for a beat before she steps back half an inch, not far enough to break the quiet bubble of space between them. He blinks, and recognizes her immediately: Elara Marlow, his late best friend Joe’s little sister, the woman Joe once threatened to hide all his 10mm socket sets in the Deschutes River for even glancing at the wrong way, back when they were all in their 20s and invincible.
She smells like jasmine lotion and cut cedar, the same scent she wore to Joe’s wedding 22 years prior, when Manny was best man and spent the entire reception sneaking glances at her across the dance floor before he chickened out and drove home alone. There’s a silver streak cutting through the dark waves of her hair by her temple now, and the faint scar on her jaw from when Joe dared her to jump off a 10 foot dock into a glacial lake when she was 16 is still there, faded just a little. She doesn’t look away when their eyes lock, her dark eyebrows lifting in amusement when she spots the grease stain darkening the knee of his work jeans, the flecks of white bondo dust stuck in the curls of his dark hair.
“Manny Ruiz. You still wear those beat up work boots every single day?” Her voice is lower than he remembers, rough around the edges from years of guiding fly fishing trips in Alaska, which is where she’s been for the last two decades, until Joe’s heart attack two years ago left her his land and his guide business. She leans against the split rail fence next to the honey stand, and her elbow brushes his every time someone passes by on the crowded walkway, a warm, deliberate little nudge that makes his pulse jump. He feels stupidly flustered, half guilty for even being attracted to her, half giddy that she’s talking to him like he’s not just the ghost of her brother’s old friend.
He leans in a little when she tells him she’s been fixing up Joe’s old cabin, that she found a stack of their old college yearbooks in the attic, photos of them covered in beer after a football game, Manny passed out on Joe’s couch with a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand. He makes her laugh when he tells her about the client who brought in a 1968 Airstream last month that was stuffed full of 30 years of old Playboys and a pet raccoon that had set up camp in the overhead cabinets. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear when she asks him about his shop, and her fingers brush his wrist when she points out the blackberry stand behind him, the same one he’d just bought his pint from 10 minutes prior.
The conflict twists tight in his chest for a second, the old voice of Joe in his head telling him to keep his hands to himself, the familiar urge to make an excuse and run back to his quiet barn where no one can get close enough to disappoint him. But then she says she’s got the beat up 1972 Scotty camper Joe left on his property that she wants to turn into guest housing for out of state fishing clients, that she’s got a six pack of the hazy IPA Joe used to drink after long days on the river, and a blackberry pie from the stand behind them still warm in her tote bag. She leans in so close he can taste the vanilla lip balm she’s wearing when she says, soft enough only he can hear, “I waited for you to ask me out after Joe’s wedding, you know. Moved to Alaska six months later when you never did.”
He doesn’t hesitate after that. He gives her his number, types hers into his old flip phone that still has a crack in the screen from when he dropped it off a camper roof last winter, tells her he’ll be out at Joe’s property by 7, that he’ll bring his socket set just in case the Scotty’s suspension needs a once over. She grins, and squeezes his forearm before she turns to walk toward the parking lot, her canvas tote slung over her shoulder.
He stands there for a minute, staring at the dark coffee stain on his wrist mixed with a smudge of blackberry juice from the pint in his other hand, the ghost of her touch still burning on his arm. He pulls out his phone to text his part-time shop assistant that he’s taking the next day off, no emergencies allowed unless the entire barn burns down. He can hear her laugh from three stalls over, when a golden retriever puppy trots up and drops a slobbery tennis ball at her feet, and he tucks his phone back in his pocket, already walking toward his beat up pickup to grab his tool bag before he heads home to change out of his grease-stained jeans.
