Manny Ruiz, 53, has made a point of skipping every Maplewood Drive block party for 12 years straight. A custom hardwood floor installer with calluses thick enough to sand oak barehanded and a grudge sharper than his best chisel, he’d avoided the annual event ever since his ex-wife left him for his cousin Greg, and the entire rest of her side of the family chose to pretend he was the one who’d messed up. The only reason he’s here now, sweating through his faded work flannel in the mid-August Ohio humidity, is his 16-year-old daughter begged him to come support her cheer team’s bake sale. He’d rather spend a Saturday regrouting a bathroom for a Karen who complains about every grain of wood than stand around making small talk with people who’d called him a deadbeat behind his back for years, but he couldn’t say no to his kid.
He’s hovering by the rolling cooler at the edge of the host’s backyard, sipping a watery lager and pretending to scroll through work emails on his phone, when he reaches for a second beer at the exact same time as someone else. Her knuckles brush the rough sandpapered calluses on the back of his hand, and she pauses for half a beat before she pulls back just a little. He looks up and freezes. It’s Lila. Greg’s ex-wife. He hasn’t seen her since their divorce finalized six months prior, hasn’t spoken to her longer than a quick greeting in the grocery store parking lot in over a decade. She’s got strands of auburn hair streaked with silver sticking to the sweat on her forehead, wears a loose linen sundress the color of sea glass, and smells like coconut sunscreen and peppermint gum when she leans back to give him space. She smirks, the corner of her mouth tugging up the same way it used to when Greg would say something stupid at family dinners back when Manny was still married. “Didn’t think you’d ever show up to one of these,” she says, popping the tab on the beer she’d grabbed, fizz bubbling over onto her wrist. She wipes it off on the side of her dress, unselfconscious.
Manny’s throat goes dry. Half of him is screaming to make an excuse and leave, to not get tangled up in any more drama with that family, to go home and watch the baseball game and drink the good bourbon he keeps stashed under his sink. The other half can’t stop staring at the laugh lines around her eyes, the tiny sunflower tattoo on her wrist he’d never noticed before, the way she shifts her weight so her shoulder brushes his when a group of kids dart past chasing a golden retriever. They talk for 20 minutes, first about the oppressive heat that’s making his flannel stick to his back, then about how the fudge brownies his daughter made are way better than the store-bought ones the other cheerleaders brought, then about how Greg hired a hack to redo the kitchen floors in their old house right after the split, and the guy warped three planks in the first month. She laughs when Manny snorts and says he could’ve fixed it in four hours for half the price, and the sound cuts through the hum of party chatter, the smell of charcoal and burnt hot dogs, the distant buzz of a lawnmower down the street. He doesn’t even notice when Greg and his ex-wife wander over until they’re standing three feet away, wearing matching smug grins.
“Well, look who dragged himself out of his sawdust-covered workshop,” Greg says, snickering, his arm slung around Manny’s ex’s waist. Manny’s jaw tightens. He’s got a dozen retorts ready, the same ones he’s rehearsed in his head a hundred times over the years, but before he can say anything, Lila steps closer to him, leans her hip against his so her side is pressed fully against his. “We were just talking about the garbage job you did hiring that floor guy for the kitchen,” she says, her tone sweet as pie, sharp as a tack. “Paid three grand for work Manny could’ve done better in his sleep. Total waste of money, wasn’t it, Manny?” Manny blinks, then smirks, rests his hand lightly on the small of her back just for a second, enough that Greg and the ex see it, enough that he can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin linen of her dress. “Sure was,” he says. Greg’s face goes bright red. The ex huffs, grabs Greg’s arm, and yanks him away without another word.
Lila snorts, takes a long sip of her beer, and turns to him. “You wanna ditch this dumpster fire?” she says. “There’s a taco joint down on Oak Street that’s open late, has the best carnitas in the county. No one we know goes there.” Manny doesn’t even hesitate. He nods, shoves his phone in his pocket, and follows her through the side gate of the yard, not stopping to say goodbye to anyone, though he shoots his daughter a quick text that says he’s heading out, left $40 in her cooler for the bake sale. He holds the passenger door of his beat-up Ford F-150 open for her, and she brushes her hand against his as she climbs in. He slides into the driver’s seat, turns the key, and the old truck rumbles to life. He glances over at her as he pulls out of the driveway, catches the glint of her silver hoop earrings in the neon sign of the gas station down the block, and feels the tight knot of resentment he’s carried in his chest for 12 years loosen for the first time he can remember.
