Manny Ruiz, 51, makes his living sanding fiberglass, rewiring frayed camper circuits, and fitting cedar paneling into gutted 1970s Airstreams for clients across the Pacific Northwest. He’s lived outside Boise for eight years, ever since his ex-wife packed a suitcase and left a note on the kitchen counter before dawn, and he’s built his small shop and his life to be as predictable and low-drama as possible. His biggest flaw is that he’s written off any kind of romantic or even casual connection entirely, convinced every new person he meets will eventually get bored and leave, so he doesn’t even bother trying. The only time he strays from his routine of work, frozen dinners, and old western marathons is the third Thursday of every month, when the local food truck rally sets up in the park three blocks from his shop.
He orders two beef empanadas and a horchata, and when she leans across the counter to hand him the paper plate, their fingers brush. Her palm is calloused at the heel, dusted with cornmeal, and he catches a whiff of jasmine perfume mixed with the fried dough scent clinging to her shirt. She holds eye contact for a beat longer than necessary, the corners of her dark eyes crinkling, before she turns to grab his drink. He steps to the side to lean against a nearby picnic table, already kicking himself for the stupid flutter in his chest, angry that he’s even noticing how the hem of her cutoff jeans rides up her thigh when she moves, how her silver hoop earrings catch the pink light of the setting sun. He feels like a creep, like he’s crossing a line he set for himself years ago, and he’s halfway through his first empanada, ready to eat fast and leave, when she steps out from behind the truck with a rag in her hand to wipe down the table he’s leaning on.
She leans in close enough that her shoulder brushes his bicep, and she asks how Jesse’s been doing at the shop, if he’s been slacking off too much when Manny’s back is turned. He laughs, tells her Jesse’s the hardest worker he’s ever hired, that he’s already offered him a part time spot for when he’s home on break. They chat for 20 minutes, the band switching to a slow John Mellencamp track, kids running past screaming with snow cones dripping down their wrists, and she mentions she’s been looking at old campers to buy for a road trip she wants to take once Jesse’s moved out, that she’s never gotten to see the Oregon coast, doesn’t want to wait for someone else to go with. He offers to show her his shop the next day, to walk her through what to look for in a used camper, what fixes are cheap and what’s a money pit, and he immediately tenses up, waiting for her to turn him down, to think he’s hitting on her. But she nods immediately, scribbles her phone number on a napkin with a cornstarch smudge on the corner, and tucks it into the pocket of his work shirt before she heads back to the truck to help the next customer.
He spends the rest of the night overthinking it, pacing his small living room, telling himself he shouldn’t have asked, that it’s a bad idea, that she’s Jesse’s mom, that this is exactly the kind of mess he’s spent eight years avoiding. But when she shows up at the shop the next afternoon, holding a paper bag of fresh empanadas and wearing a faded Fleetwood Mac tee and leather sandals, all that anxiety melts away fast. He leads her back to the half-restored 1972 Airstream he’s been working on for a client in Portland, and they climb inside together. The space is cramped, the ceiling just high enough for them to stand without hunching, and her hip presses against his when they both turn to look at the cedar paneling he installed the week before. She reaches up to run her fingers along the smooth wood, her arm brushing his chest, and when she turns to face him, her face is inches from his, and she says she didn’t really come about the camper. She says she’s been wanting to talk to him since she saw him at the rally last month, that Jesse’s told her a hundred times how nice Manny is, how he’s the first boss that ever treated him like a grown up.
He doesn’t overthink it. He leans in and kisses her, and she tastes like mint gum and the mango popsicle she was eating when she walked in, her hand coming up to cup the side of his face, her thumb brushing the gray stubble along his jaw. They pull back after a minute, both laughing a little, and she wipes a smudge of fiberglass dust off his cheek with the edge of her tee shirt. He asks her if she wants to skip the camper walkthrough entirely, go get margaritas and dinner at the little Mexican place down the road, the one with the frozen drinks so strong you only need two. She nods, tangling her free hand in the graying hair at the nape of his neck, and pulls him in for another kiss.
