Manny Ruiz, 53, spent 22 years as a smokejumper before a shattered ankle from a bad landing in 2020 pushed him into running a wildfire mitigation consulting firm out of a cramped, pine-scented office in Missoula, Montana. His biggest flaw, per his only full-time employee Lila, is that he hasn’t so much as asked a woman out for coffee since his 2015 divorce, convinced the scar crisscrossing his left cheek and the permanent ache in his ankle make him too rough around the edges for anything that doesn’t involve mapping fire breaks or advising ranchers on defensible space. Lila practically shoved him out the door at 6 p.m. that September evening, telling him the annual west side food truck rally was a perfect excuse to stop staring at satellite imagery for once, and if he didn’t come back with a photo of the new tamale truck’s special, she’d rework his entire client schedule for the next month.
He showed up in scuffed work boots and a faded Carhartt shirt that still smelled like diesel from the day prior’s site visit, holding a cold IPA he’d grabbed from the craft beer tent near the entrance. The air hummed with the sound of kids screaming as they chased each other with melting snow cones, the sharp, warm scent of roasted corn and chili powder curling through the pine breeze that rolled off the hills surrounding the park. He queued up behind three college students in hiking gear, shifting his weight off his bad ankle every few minutes, and didn’t notice he’d been staring at the woman behind the tamale truck counter until she locked eyes with him, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, for three full beats before he looked away, his ears burning.
When he got to the front of the line, he fumbled his leather wallet out of his back pocket, his calloused fingers slipping on the worn plastic of his credit card, and it clattered to the wooden planks of the truck’s service platform. They both bent to grab it at the same time, their foreheads bumping softly, and she laughed, a low, warm sound that made the back of his neck tingle. “Easy there, cowboy,” she said, wiping her hands on the front of her stained red apron, sun streaks running through her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid. She handed him his card, their fingers brushing for half a second, and he felt a jolt he hadn’t experienced in close to a decade, sharp and warm all at once.
He ordered three pork tamales, and she asked if he wanted extra verde sauce, mentioning she’d brought the recipe with her when she moved to Missoula from Tucson six months prior to be near her 2-year-old granddaughter. He told her he’d eaten tamales just like that when he’d been stationed on fire assignments near the Arizona border back in his jumping days, and she nodded, sliding the foil-wrapped tamales onto a paper tray, piling extra sauce on the side. “You look like the kind of guy who can handle the heat,” she said, and he didn’t have a quick retort, which was unusual for him, so he just grunted a thank you and walked over to an empty picnic table, his bad ankle throbbing a little less than it had five minutes prior.
He ate the tamales slow, savoring the spicy, tender pork and the bright bite of the sauce, and kept glancing over at her truck every few seconds, half of him embarrassed at how eager he was to talk to her again, the other half disgusted with himself for even considering it. He’d spent so long telling himself he was better off alone, that any attempt at connection would just end up messy and disappointing, that the spark he’d felt when their fingers brushed felt like a betrayal of the quiet, predictable life he’d built for himself.
By the time the sun dipped below the hills, the crowd had thinned out, most of the food trucks packing up their equipment, and he saw her huffing, straining to lift a heavy cooler full of unopened soda cans out of the back of her truck to load into her minivan. He didn’t overthink it, just stood up, walked over, and said, “Let me get that for you.” He hoisted the cooler easy, his years of hauling 100-pound jump packs making it feel like nothing, and set it in the back of her van, brushing a stray strand of pine needle off his shirt when he turned back around.
She thanked him, leaning against the side of the van, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, the faint smell of cinnamon and chili powder clinging to her shirt. She asked if he’d enjoyed the tamales, and he told her they were the best he’d had outside of southern Arizona, which was the truth. They talked for 20 minutes, standing so close their shoulders almost brushed when one of them shifted their weight, her asking about his time as a smokejumper, him telling her about the scar on his forearm from a 2019 blaze outside of Bozeman, when he’d dragged a 19-year-old rookie out of the path of a fast-moving crown fire. She reached out and touched the scar lightly, her fingers soft against his rough, sun-worn skin, and said, “That must have hurt like hell.” He didn’t flinch, just said, “Worth it to get the kid out.”
She smiled, leaning in a little more, so he could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes, and said, “You’re not as much of a grump as you look like you are, are you?” He laughed, a real, full laugh he didn’t remember having in months, and said, “Most of my clients would disagree.” She handed him a crumpled paper bag, warm through the paper, and said there were two extra tamales inside for his breakfast the next day, and that if he came back next Thursday, she made chiles rellenos that were even better than the tamales, and she’d save him a plate before the college kids showed up and cleaned her out.
He nodded, taking the bag, and told her he’d be there. He walked back to his beat-up Ford F-150, the cool evening air biting at his cheeks, and sat in the driver’s seat for a minute, holding the warm bag in his lap, the faint pressure of her fingers on his forearm still lingering. He pulled out his phone, opened his calendar, and typed *TAMALE TRUCK* in all caps next to next Thursday, no reminders needed. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled out of the parking lot, and the taste of verde sauce still lingered on his tongue as he drove toward his quiet, empty house, for the first time in years looking forward to the end of the work week.
