Manny Rocha, 53, makes his living pulling rotted subfloor out of 1970s campers and reupholstering their dinette cushions in sunflower print for retirees headed to national parks. He’s a people-pleaser down to his bone dust, the kind of guy who knocks $200 off a bill if a customer mentions their grandkid has asthma, who’s avoided every town mixer for eight years straight after his divorce, just to skip the awkward questions about why his ex-wife moved to Colorado with a ski instructor. The only event he makes exception for is the monthly craft beer pop-up at the old feed store, mostly because the owner keeps a cooler of free smoked brats behind the counter and no one bothers him while he stares at the fireflies blinking over the hay bales.
He’s halfway through a hazy IPA when he spots her, leaning against a fence post laughing at a joke from the local feed store clerk. It takes him three full seconds to place her: Lena Marquez, his ex-wife’s younger sister, the girl who used to crash their pool parties in high school, who’d steal his leftover tacos and tease him for listening to too much Willie Nelson. She’s 47 now, a streak of silver running through her auburn hair, linen work shirt unbuttoned at the collar, dirt smudged on her forearm from the plant nursery she just opened on the edge of town. He hasn’t seen her in 20 years, and his throat goes dry before he can look away.
She spots him before he can slip around the beer tent. She waves, weaving through the crowd of farmers and high school teachers and retired construction workers, and stops so close he can smell jasmine lotion over the smoky scent of grilled brats and pine from the oak trees lining the lot. “Manny Rocha. I’d recognize that beat-up leather work belt anywhere. You still have that thing?” She taps the scuffed brass buckle with one finger, the tip of her nail chipped dark forest green, and the brush of her knuckle against his hip sends a jolt up his spine he hasn’t felt since he was 17.
He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, the edge of his cold beer can sweating onto his calloused palm. He knows he should keep this casual, keep his distance. Half the people in this lot went to high school with both of them, half know his ex still calls her mom every Sunday to complain about how Manny “never cared about adventure.” Hooking up with her little sister is the kind of small town gossip that would spread faster than Hill Country wildfire, the kind of drama he’s spent eight years avoiding to keep the peace. But she’s leaning in, tilting her head when he rambles about the 1972 Airstream he’s restoring for a disabled Army vet, her knee brushing his when a group of kids runs past chasing a stray golden retriever, and he can’t bring himself to step back.
She tells him she just got back from a two-week trip to West Texas, where she collected a dozen rare spineless cacti for her nursery’s specialty collection. “I’ve got them set up in the back greenhouse right now. You wanna come see? No one’s out there this time of night.” The invitation hangs in the thick, humid July air, sweet as the peaches sold at the stand down the road. He hesitates, glancing over at the group of his ex-wife’s old high school friends standing by the taco truck, and then looks back at her. Her eyes are dark, steady, no hint of a joke, and he nods before he can overthink it.
The greenhouse smells like damp potting soil and blooming gardenias when they walk in, the plastic walls trapping the day’s heat so his thin cotton work t-shirt sticks to his back almost immediately. She leads him to a wooden worktable at the back, pointing out a tiny round cactus dotted with pale pink blooms, and when she reaches up to adjust a hanging pothos above his head, her hip presses firm against his, no accidental fumble, no quick apologetic shuffle. He turns to look at her, and she’s already leaning in, her hand resting light on his sunburnt bicep, and he kisses her before he can talk himself out of it. Her lips are soft, taste like the cherry lime seltzer she’d been sipping all evening, and she kisses him back like she’s been waiting to do it for years.
They sit on a weathered cedar bench outside the nursery an hour later, sharing a cold can of lemon seltzer she had stashed in her truck’s cooler. A group of local teens drives past in a beat-up silver Ford pickup, hooting and waving, and he doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t worry about who they’ll tell, doesn’t run through a list of half-baked apologies he’ll have to make if word gets back to his ex. He’d spent eight years shrinking himself to make everyone else comfortable, turning down invitations, avoiding any situation that might ruffle feathers, and none of it had made him half as happy as the callus on the side of her thumb brushing the back of his hand right now.
He laces his work-worn, wood-glue-stained fingers through hers, and for the first time in eight years, he doesn’t feel the urge to apologize for wanting something for himself.
