Manny Ruiz, 53, spent 28 years keeping commercial jets from colliding over the Midwest before he took his pension last year. His worst flaw, he’ll admit if you buy him enough bourbon, is that he still treats every unspoken social rule like an FAA safety mandate: no cutting lines, no talking during the national anthem, no even glancing twice at anyone related to his late wife Ellie. He’d followed that last rule rigidly for three years, ever since Ellie’s breast cancer took her, spending every Saturday at the VFW fish fry alone, same booth by the back door, same order of cod, extra tartar, one Bud Light, no small talk.
The air that August Saturday hung thick enough to drink, sweet with cut alfalfa from the fields down the road and the sharp, greasy smell of battered fish frying in cast iron. He was picking a stray piece of breading off his napkin when he heard the yelp. Lena Carter, Ellie’s first cousin, who he hadn’t seen since Ellie’s funeral 12 years prior, had tripped over the leg of a folding chair, her plate of catfish tilted so far half the hush puppies slid onto the linoleum. She caught herself on the edge of his booth, her bare thigh brushing his jeans for half a second, warm and soft through the worn denim, before she dropped into the seat across from him, huffing a laugh.
She brushed a strand of silver-streaked dark hair out of her face, and when her eyes locked onto his, she held the gaze a beat longer than casual, the corner of her mouth tugging up. “Manny Ruiz. You still wear that same ratty flannel you had at the wedding? I’d swear that thing has more stains than the VFW pool table.” He blinked, surprised she remembered. He’d barely spoken to her back then, always written her off as off-limits, too loud, too wild, seven years younger than him, always running off to hiking trips in Colorado before she moved out west for a nursing job. She said she was back in town to take care of her mom, who’d had a stroke, was renting the old cottage on the edge of town that her grandma left her. Every time she laughed, she leaned forward a little, her knee brushing his under the table, and he found himself leaning in too, forgetting to scan the room to make sure no one they knew was watching.
The guilt hit him slow, like a small prop plane coming in too low on the runway. He felt like he was cheating, like Ellie was watching from somewhere, shaking her head. He pushed his plate away, ready to make an excuse to leave, when she reached across the table and touched his forearm, her fingers warm through the flannel, her nail polish a soft, faded cherry red. “I heard how hard it was after she passed. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out. I didn’t want to overstep.” Her voice was quiet, no teasing left, and he could smell coconut shampoo on her, mixed with the fried fish and the faint tang of her lime seltzer. He’d spent three years pushing everyone away, convinced being alone was the only way to honor Ellie, but sitting there, with her hand on his arm, he didn’t want to move.
When the VFW started clearing out around 8, the sky had turned dark, fat raindrops spattering the windows. She’d picked up a second plate of food for her mom, and he offered to walk her to her car, ignoring the little voice in his head screaming that this was breaking every rule he’d set for himself. They huddled under the awning by his beat-up Ford F150, the rain coming down harder now, soaking the cuffs of his jeans. She turned to him, her face close enough he could count the freckles across her nose, and said, “I had a crush on you for, like, ten years back then. Never said anything. You were always hers.” He froze for a second, the rain drumming on the metal awning so loud he almost thought he misheard her. The guilt that had been sitting in his chest all night softened, just a little. Ellie used to joke that Lena was the only person stubborn enough to put up with his grumpy ass, he remembered. She would’ve yelled at him for moping alone for three years.
He lifted his hand, brushing a raindrop off her cheek, his thumb grazing her skin for just a second. She leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut for half a beat. He offered to drive her to her mom’s house, said her old Honda Civic was probably too cramped to fit the leftover food and her mom’s prescription she’d picked up at the VFW desk. She nodded, grinning, and he opened the passenger door for her, their hands brushing when she handed him the foil-wrapped plate of catfish to hold. He climbed into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the radio kicked on to Patsy Cline’s *Crazy*, the same song Ellie had walked down the aisle to. Lena started humming along, tapping her foot against the dash, and he backed out of the parking lot, the rain tapping soft against the windows, not a single rule crossing his mind for the first time in years.
