Manny Ruiz, 62, retired transmission lineman, stood in the fish fry line at the VFW post south of Austin, scuffing the toe of his work boot against the cracked asphalt. He’d had a full knee replacement seven months prior, and still hated when strangers held doors for him, hated the way people’s eyes darted to the slight limp when he walked, like he was already one foot in the ground. Widowed eight years, he’d raised two daughters alone after his wife Maria passed, spent most of his days tinkering with half-restored 1980s pickup trucks in his two-bay garage, and showed up to the weekly fry mostly to avoid heating up a frozen dinner for one. The air reeked of hot grease and fried catfish, the country cover band on the small stage grinding through a slow version of Amarillo by Morning, kids chasing each other around the picnic tables with sticky handfuls of hushpuppies.
He was reaching for a paper plate stacked high with coleslaw when someone’s elbow bumped his bicep, hard enough that a dollop of slaw spilled onto his worn Carhartt jacket. He turned, ready to snap, and froze. Clara Marquez, 57, Maria’s youngest cousin, stood there holding a basket of catfish, her dark hair streaked with silver pulled back in a loose braid, silver hoop earrings glinting under the string lights strung between the post’s support beams. He hadn’t seen her in close to 12 years, not since she’d moved to Colorado to work at a dental clinic outside Denver. She smelled like jasmine perfume, the exact same kind Maria used to wear, and for half a second Manny’s throat went tight. She grinned, the same crooked smile she’d had since she was a teenager crashing Maria and Manny’s backyard barbecues, and wiped a smudge of fryer grease off her cheek with the back of her hand. She’d moved back to town three weeks prior, she said, to take care of her mom who’d had a stroke, was crashing in the old family home a mile down the road from his place.
They grabbed a picnic table on the edge of the crowd, far enough away that the band didn’t drown out conversation. She’d quit dental hygiene two years prior, she said, now made stained glass window hangings for small shops around the Hill Country, held her hands out to show him the small, faded nicks along her knuckles from cutting glass. When she passed him an extra hushpuppy across the table, her fingers brushed his, calloused and warm, and Manny pulled his hand back like he’d been burned. He’d always felt a quiet, stupid spark around Clara, back when she was younger, back when Maria was still alive, and he’d always buried it so deep he barely acknowledged it existed. It felt wrong, dirty almost, to notice the way her jeans hugged her hips, the way she laughed so hard she snort-laughed when he told her about the time his youngest daughter tried to dye her hair neon pink in the kitchen sink and stained the countertop for six months.
When she asked him if he could take a look at her beat-up 1992 Ford Bronco, which had been sputtering every time she hit 50 miles an hour, he almost said no. Almost made up an excuse about being backed up on truck restorations, about his knee acting up. But she was leaning forward across the table, her dark eyes locked on his, no hint of awkwardness, and he found himself saying yes, told her to swing by his garage after the fry wrapped up, he’d take a quick look before it got too late.
She showed up 45 minutes later, holding a six pack of his favorite Shiner Bock, like she still remembered what he drank after a long day of work. Manny rolled the Bronco into the garage, propped the hood up, and spent 20 minutes poking around the engine, finding a loose spark plug easy as breathing. He slid under the truck to tighten a loose exhaust bracket, and when he held his hand up for a 10mm socket, she placed it directly in his palm, their fingers lacing for half a beat before she pulled away. When he rolled out from under the truck, his knee twinged hard enough that he winced, and she stepped forward immediately, her hand wrapping around his bicep to steady him, her palm warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He wiped grease off his hands on a rag, and she was leaning against the Bronco’s fender, one boot propped on the tire, the garage radio playing an old George Strait deep cut he and Maria used to dance to in the living room.
She said she’d always thought he was the best guy Maria could have ever found, said she’d thought about him off and on for years, after Maria passed, had almost called him a dozen times but never had the nerve. Manny’s chest felt tight, equal parts guilt and sharp, hot desire, the kind he hadn’t felt in close to a decade. He told her he’d thought about her too, said he’d felt like a monster for it, like he was betraying the woman he’d promised to love forever. She shook her head, stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the jasmine perfume again, could feel the heat coming off her skin. No one expects you to grieve forever, she said, soft, and Maria would have kicked your ass if she knew you were spending every Friday night alone eating frozen dinners.
He leaned in before he could talk himself out of it, kissed her slow, and she tasted like sweet tea and the peppermint gum she’d chewed since she was 16. The crickets were chirping loud outside the open garage door, the beer was cold on the workbench behind them, and for the first time in eight years, Manny didn’t feel the sharp, empty ache of loneliness when he took a breath. He tangled one hand in the end of her braid, pulled her a little closer, and she laughed against his mouth, soft and warm.
