Manny Ruiz, 57, makes his living restoring 19th century coastal survey maps out of the cluttered sunroom of his tiny bungalow just outside Astoria, Oregon. His hands are perpetually smudged with indigo ink and gum arabic, his nails caked with the fine sand he uses to buff fragile paper edges, and he’s spent the last eight years perfecting the art of dodging neighborhood invitations. Since his wife Elaina died, any gathering that required small talk about the weather or local sports felt like a performance he didn’t have the energy to pull off. It’s his only real flaw, if you don’t count the fact that he still leaves a mug of peppermint tea on the counter for her every morning, old habit he can’t shake.
The 19-year-old kid next door, Javi, practically drags him to the end-of-summer block party, shoving a Tupperware of his abuela’s peach cobbler in Manny’s arms and saying if he hides in the sunroom one more weekend he’s gonna turn into one of his yellowed old maps. Manny grumbles the whole two houses down, but he brings the cobbler, grabs a can of Rainier off the cooler by the grill, and plants himself by the edge of the food table, far enough from the crowd that no one will bother him for at least 20 minutes. The air smells like charred bratwurst and coconut sunscreen, kids screaming as they slip down a plastic sheet strung across the front lawn of the house at the end of the block, a George Strait record playing tinny from a portable speaker on the porch.
He spots her before she spots him. Leaning against the split-rail fence at the edge of the yard, bare feet planted in the cool grass, wearing a sun-faded yellow linen sundress that hits just above her knees, silver anklet glinting when she shifts her weight. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose braid, a few strands sticking to the sweat on her neck, and when she laughs at something the woman next to her says, her eyes crinkle at the corners the exact same way Elaina’s used to. Manny’s throat goes tight. It’s Mara, Elaina’s younger cousin, the one he hadn’t seen since the funeral 12 years prior, when she’d hugged him so tight he could smell jasmine on her hair, and he’d felt a sharp, shameful jolt of attraction he’d pushed down so hard he’d almost forgotten it existed.
She looks over then, her smile faltering for half a second before it widens, warmer, softer, and she pushes off the fence to walk over. She stops so close he can still smell that same jasmine, mixed with salt from the ocean breeze that drifts over the treetops, and when she leans in to hug him, her bare shoulder brushes the exposed skin of his forearm where his flannel sleeve is rolled up. His hand hovers over her back for three full beats before he pats it gently, his palm burning where it touches the soft linen. She says she moved to town last week, bought the run-down independent bookstore on Main Street, had asked around for him the second she got into town because she remembered he restored old maps, wanted to hang a few of his pieces in the reading nook at the back of the store.
He’s torn so fast it makes his head spin. One part of him screams this is wrong, that she’s Elaina’s cousin, that he’d be betraying the memory of the woman he loved for 22 years if he even talks to her longer than five minutes. The other part is buzzing, sharp and alive, because no one’s asked about his work in years, no one’s looked at him like that, like she’s actually listening, like she doesn’t feel sorry for him for being alone. She shifts her weight, the hem of her dress brushing his calf, and when she reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, her wrist grazes his jaw by accident. He flinches, not because it hurts, but because the contact is so warm, so unexpected, it sends a shiver down his spine. She apologizes, cheeks flushing pink, says she’s always been clumsy, he probably remembers that from the wedding when she tripped over the aisle runner and spilled red wine on Elaina’s veil.
He laughs, a real laugh, the kind he hasn’t let out in months, and says he does remember that. Elaina had laughed so hard she’d cried, said it was the best part of the whole day. Mara grins, and for a second the weight of the guilt in his chest feels a little lighter. She nods down the street, towards the path that leads to the beach, and asks if he wants to walk down there after the party dies down, to talk more about the maps, maybe bring him to the store tomorrow to see the nook. He hesitates, his mind flicking to the framed photo of Elaina on his workbench back home, to all the rules he’d set for himself after she died to keep himself from hurting again.
He looks at her then, her lower lip tucked between her teeth, waiting, no pity in her eyes, no expectation, just quiet hope. He nods.
They walk down the path to the beach as the sun dips low over the ocean, painting the sky pink and orange, the sand still warm enough under their bare feet that he doesn’t mind the small sharp shells digging into his heels. She stops a few feet from the tide line, turns to him, and holds out her hand, her terracotta-painted nails glinting in the golden light. He stares at it for a second, then laces his ink-stained, calloused fingers through hers, her palm soft and warm against his. A small wave rolls in, cold enough to make them both laugh when it laps at their ankles, and for the first time in eight years, Manny doesn’t feel guilty for wanting to stay right where he is.
