Manny Rocha is 61, has spent the last eight years building custom fly rods out of the cinder block shop behind his central Oregon bungalow, and hasn’t set foot at the town’s annual summer block party since his wife, Elara, passed. His 16-year-old granddaughter all but dragged him here this year, batting her eyelashes and saying she needed him to man her 4-H lemonade stand for 20 minutes while she ran to the bathroom. He’d caved, even though he knew half the town would corner him to ask when he was “finally putting himself out there,” a phrase that makes his jaw ache so bad he keeps a bottle of ibuprofen in his truck console for exactly these events.
The asphalt sticks to the soles of his work boots when he leans back against the tailgate of his beat-up 2007 Silverado, sweating through the collar of his faded Pendleton work shirt, sipping a lukewarm Coors he’d grabbed from the cooler by the food table. The air smells like charcoal smoke, cut alfalfa, and sugary lemonade, Johnny Cash’s *Folsom Prison Blues* warbling tinny from a portable speaker someone’s propped on a picnic table. He’s counting down the minutes until he can sneak back to his quiet property when Lena Marquez steps into his line of sight.
She moved into the old Miller place three months prior, the half-acre plot separated from his by a row of scraggly ponderosa pines. He’s avoided her on purpose, because everyone within a 10-mile radius knows she’s the ex-wife of Doug Hargrove, the guy who stole his state wrestling title senior year on a bogus referee call, who spent four years talking trash about him to anyone who’d listen. Manny’s never been the type to hold a grudge, but Doug’s brand of loud, mean small-town arrogance left a bad enough taste in his mouth he’d crossed the street twice to avoid waving at Lena when she first moved in.
She’s holding a paper plate stacked with a grilled bratwurst and a scoop of potato salad, a smudge of charcoal streaked across her left jaw, bare arms glistening with sweat, cutoff denim shorts frayed at the hem, a faded Willie Nelson tee clinging to her shoulders. She stops a foot away, close enough he can smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sharp tang of the hard seltzer she’s holding in her other hand, and holds the plate out. “Saw you hovering by the cooler for 15 minutes like you were scared the food was gonna bite you. Figured you’d be hungry.”
Manny tenses, his knuckles white around the Coors can. He mumbles a thanks, reaches out to take the plate, and the tips of their fingers brush. He feels the thick, rough callus on her index finger, the same kind he has on his dominant hand from sanding fly rod blanks for hours on end. “I build custom furniture,” she says, like she can read his question, wiggling that finger slightly. “Spend 40 hours a week sanding oak. Comes with the territory.”
He nods, sets the plate on the tailgate, doesn’t know what to say. He’s spent so long avoiding small talk he’s rusty, every sentence that pops into his head feels dumb or rude. “I’ve seen the lights on in your shop late at night,” she says, leaning her hip against the side of the truck, not too close, close enough her shoulder is six inches from his bicep. “Figured you were either a serial killer or you had a hobby you were obsessive about. Fly rods, right? The kid who cuts my grass said you sell them for $500 a pop online.”
He snorts, surprised. “You ask the kid who cuts your grass about me?”
“Sure did,” she says, grinning, and her hazel eyes have little flecks of green in them, he notices, when she doesn’t look away from his gaze. “Hot single neighbor who avoids everyone? I was curious. Also, Doug’s an idiot. I divorced him 12 years ago for cheating on me with his secretary, so you don’t have to act like I’m carrying his germs or whatever.”
Manny flushes, caught red-handed. He opens his mouth to apologize when a 10-year-old with a neon green super soaker comes tearing around the picnic table, dousing the front of Lena’s tee before she can jump out of the way. She yelps, laughing, and steps closer to him to get out of the kid’s line of fire, her shoulder pressing firm to his bicep for three full seconds, the wet fabric of her shirt cool against his skin through his own. She swats at the kid’s back as he runs off, still laughing, and when she tilts her head up to look at him, her hair is sticking a little to her forehead, her cheeks pink from the heat and the laughter.
He feels something unclench in his chest, the thing that’s been tight since Elara died, the thing that made him avoid every party, every set up, every stranger who tried to talk to him for eight years. He smirks, takes a sip of his beer, nods at the wet spot on her shirt. “You know, I got a half dozen new rods I need to test out on the Deschutes next weekend. Water’s low, the trout are biting at 6 a.m. sharp. You free?”
She blinks, surprised for half a second, then grins so wide the corners of her eyes crinkle. She reaches over, takes the Coors right out of his hand, takes a long sip, and wipes her mouth on the back of her wrist. “I’ll bring the turkey sandwiches and extra sunscreen. Don’t be late, Rocha. I hate waiting.”
She pushes off the truck, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and walks back toward the food table, her flip flops slapping against the hot asphalt, yelling a greeting at the woman running the hot dog stand. Manny picks up the bratwurst off the plate, takes a bite, it’s juicy, spicy, exactly how he likes it. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, texts his granddaughter he doesn’t need a ride home later, he’s gonna stay for the pie auction.
