Manny Ruiz, 53, makes his living patching dents and reupholstering bench seats in vintage campers out of a converted barn 20 minutes outside Boise, and he hasn’t attended the Ada County Fair in seven years. He only showed up this year because a guy selling a complete set of 1960s Airstream window seals texted him he’d be set up by the cattle barn, and the parts were too good to pass up. He’s halfway through a corn dog slathered in spicy mustard, leaning against a split-rail fence watching a group of 6-year-olds cling to sheep for mutton busting, when a woman’s shoulder slams into his elbow. Mustard streaks three inches down the front of his faded gray flannel.
He’s about to grumble when he looks down and recognizes her. Lena Marquez, his ex-wife’s younger cousin, 49, who runs a mobile dog grooming service out of a converted sprinter van, who he’d only seen a handful of times at family cookouts back when he was still married, who he’d spent more time than he’d ever admit staring at across picnic tables when his ex wasn’t looking. She’s laughing so hard she snorts, pulling a lemon-scented wet wipe from the fanny pack slung around her waist, and leans in before he can protest to dab at the mustard stain. Her chest is inches from his, he can smell coconut shampoo and the faint vanilla of her lip gloss, and her forearm brushes the hair on his bicep when she swipes at the fabric. He freezes, half out of old, ingrained guilt, half because he hasn’t been this close to a woman who wasn’t dropping off a camper for repairs in three years.
He tries to step back, mumbles that he’s got it, but she swats his hand away, holding eye contact so long his ears burn. “Don’t be an idiot,” she says, grinning. “You still wear those same beat-up steel-toe boots you had at the 2014 family reunion? I’d know that scuff on the toe anywhere. You said you got it kicking a raccoon out of a camper you were restoring. Still fighting wildlife over aluminum?”
The old guilt nags at him, sharp and familiar. For eight years, he’s told himself even thinking about Lena was a line he couldn’t cross, even after his ex left him for a timeshare salesman she met on a cruise to Mexico, even after his ex stopped talking to every single member of her side of the family six years ago over an inheritance fight. He shifts his weight, the hay under his boots crunching, and tries to think of a polite way to excuse himself before he does something stupid.
She must read the hesitation on his face, because she rolls her eyes, tucking a strand of dark hair that escaped her braid behind her ear. “Relax. Carmen lives in Portland now, she hasn’t spoken to me since 2017, I promise she’s not gonna pop out of the cotton candy stand and yell at either of us. I was heading to the beer garden. You wanna come? I’ll buy you a cold IPA to make up for ruining your flannel.”
He hesitates for ten full seconds before he nods.
She slides her hand across the table halfway through their second beer, her thumb brushing the thin, silvery scar across his left knuckle he got when a window frame slipped and hit him last winter. “I always thought you were too hard on yourself,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, no trace of her earlier teasing. “After Carmen left, everyone said you shut everyone out. I get it, but you didn’t have to be alone all that time.”
The last of the guilt melts away then, fast enough it makes his chest feel light. He admits he’s spent years feeling stupid for even noticing her back when he was married, like he was doing something wrong even when he never said a word, never acted on it. She laughs, soft, leaning forward so her shoulder presses against his, and says she used to make up excuses to stop by Carmen’s house when she knew he’d be working in the garage, just to watch him fix things, to see the way his forearms flexed when he turned a wrench.
They leave the fair an hour later, stopping at his shop on the way to her place so he can show her the Scotsman. She runs her hand along the polished cedar paneling when he flips the overhead light on, her fingers tracing the edge of the counter he built by hand, and asks if he’s got room for a plus one on the first road trip he takes in it, the one he’s been planning to the Oregon coast for two years. He nods, reaching out to tuck that same loose strand of hair behind her ear, his knuckle brushing her cheek. He locks the shop door behind them when they leave, the neon “OPEN” sign flickering off behind the glass as they walk to his pickup, her hand tangled in his.
