Manny Ruiz, 53, custom motorcycle upholsterer, had avoided the county fair for 12 straight years, ever since his ex-wife told him she was leaving for a younger roofing contractor over a plate of lukewarm funnel cakes by the ferris wheel. He only broke his streak this August because his 16-year-old granddaughter Lila begged him to come see her show steer, the one she’d spent six months raising, brushing, and training to stand still for judges. He couldn’t say no, even if the thought of walking past that same funnel cake stand made his jaw tighten so hard his molars ached. He was leaning against the splintered cedar fence outside the livestock barn, cherry snow cone dripping sticky red down his wrist, steel-toe work boots caked in hay and dust, when someone’s shoulder bumped his hard enough to make a slosh of syrup hit the knee of his faded jeans.
He looked up, ready to snap, and froze. It was Lena Marquez. 51, his old high school lab partner, his late best friend Javi’s little sister, the girl he’d spent three years staring at across shop class tables too nervous to say a word, even when Javi kept teasing him she’d say yes if he ever worked up the nerve to ask. She was wearing cutoff denim shorts scuffed at the hem, a faded 2017 Tom Petty tour tee, scuffed cowgirl boots caked in the same hay dust as his, a single streak of silver cutting through the dark hair she’d pulled back in a messy braid. She was holding a paper tray of fried oreos dusted with powdered sugar, grinning so wide the crinkles at the corners of her eyes showed, and said, “Manny Ruiz, I’d know that permanent grease stain on your left wrist anywhere. You still haven’t gotten that off from when we tried to fix your first Harley in Javi’s garage senior year?”
He laughed, surprised, wiped the snow cone drips off his wrist with the back of his hand. He hadn’t talked to Lena in almost 10 years, not since Javi’s funeral, when he was too wrapped up in his own failing marriage and too hung up on the stupid rule he’d lived by for 36 years: you don’t mess with your best friend’s little sister, no exceptions. For the last 12 he’d added a second rule: you don’t let anyone get close enough to break what’s left of your already cracked heart. But she smelled like coconut sunscreen and fried sugar, and when she passed him a crumpled napkin from her purse their fingers brushed, and he felt a jolt go up his arm that he hadn’t felt since he was 17, stupid and giddy and warm all at once. He tucked his hand in his pocket like he was hiding a secret, and said, “You still judge the 4H art projects every year? Javi used to make fun of you for giving the 8-year-olds’ stick figure drawings first place just because they drew dinosaurs.”
She snorted, took a bite of an oreo, powdered sugar dusting her lower lip. She nodded toward the grandstand, where the announcer was yelling over the loudspeaker about the upcoming pig races, the crowd scattered across the bleachers whooping in response. “C’mon. I know you love those stupid pig races. You used to bet Javi 5 bucks you could pick the winning pig every year, and you never won once.” He hesitated for half a second, glanced over at the funnel cake stand glowing in the distance, then nodded. They walked side by side down the packed dirt path, their elbows knocking every three or four steps, neither of them shifting away. She told him about her third grade class, about how she quit drinking coffee last year and switched to peppermint herbal tea after she started getting heartburn, about how Javi’s two kids were both in college now, studying engineering just like their dad. He told her about his upholstery shop, about how Lila’s steer had beaten three other calves at the regional show in June, about how he restored a 1968 Panhead last year that won best in show at the state motorcycle rally.
They stopped at the top of the grandstand, the sun dipping low over the surrounding cornfields, painting the sky streaks of pink and tangerine, the air thick with the smell of corn dogs and cut grass. The first set of pigs burst out of the gate, the crowd screaming and cheering, and she leaned into his side a little, her shoulder pressed firm to his bicep, warm even through the thin cotton of his work shirt. “I always liked you, you know,” she said, quiet enough that only he could hear it, not looking at him, eyes fixed on the pigs racing across the dirt below. “Back in high school. I thought you only saw me as Javi’s annoying little sister. I was too shy to say anything.” He froze for a second, then reached over, touched her elbow, ran his thumb over the small sun freckle just above her wrist, intentional, no accident this time. “I was the one who was scared,” he said. “I thought you were way out of my league. And I’d never cross Javi, not for anything.”
She turned to look at him then, her eyes glinting in the golden sunset, and she swiped the pad of her thumb over the corner of his mouth, wiping off a smudge of cherry snow cone he didn’t know was there. “Javi would’ve teased us both for waiting 35 years to do something about it,” she said. The pig races ended, the crowd roaring as the winning pig got its prize Oreo, and she slipped her hand into his, her palm calloused from years of holding paintbrushes, warm from the August sun. She asked if he wanted to get a beer at the old Watering Hole on the edge of town, the one with the jukebox that only plays 70s and 80s rock, the one they used to sneak into when they were 19 with terrible fake IDs. He didn’t overthink it, didn’t hesitate, didn’t let the old rules or the old grief or the memory of his ex-wife’s funnel cake announcement get in the way. He squeezed her hand, nodded, and led her down the grandstand steps toward his truck, the distant tinkling music of the ferris wheel fading behind them.
