Manny Ruiz is 52, runs a vintage camper restoration shop out of a weathered barn 12 miles outside Flagstaff, Arizona. His biggest flaw is he’s spent the last seven years assuming anyone who’s nice to him either wants a discount on a frame-off Airstream rebuild, or is looking to spread gossip about how his ex-wife left him for a hot air balloon tour pilot at the 2016 Route 66 Rally. He’s avoided the rally every year since, but this time he had no choice—his fully restored 1964 Winnebago was nominated for Best in Show, and the $5,000 prize would cover three months of aluminum sheet stock.
The late May desert air smells like charred hamburgers, pine, and warm asphalt when he leans against the Winnebago’s rear bumper, sipping a cold IPA he pulled from the built-in cooler. A woman in cutoff denim shorts, scuffed cowboy boots, and a faded 1987 Van Halen tour tee he swears he gave away to a thrift store in 2001 walks straight for him, gravel crunching under her boots. He recognizes her immediately: Lila, the 38-year-old event coordinator for the rally, stepdaughter of his old business partner who he had a very public falling out with 10 years ago over a botched 1959 Spartan restoration. The old man still tells anyone who’ll listen Manny is a hack, and has banned all rally vendors from working with him.
She stops less than a foot away, close enough he can smell coconut sunscreen and sparkling lemon on her breath, her sun-freckled nose crinkling when she nods at the custom reclaimed cedar cabinetry peeking out the Winnebago’s open door. “You did all that yourself, right?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, leaning in past him to run a finger along the edge of the door frame, her shoulder brushing his sun-warmed bicep through his thin flannel shirt. He freezes for half a second, already mentally drafting the brush off—he’s got no interest in getting dragged into another fight with her stepdad, no interest in whatever favor she’s about to ask for.
He gives her a noncommittal grunt, sipping his beer, trying not to stare at the way the golden hour sun hits the strands of copper in her dark hair. She holds eye contact with him longer than necessary, no trace of awkwardness, when he glances down at the chipped red polish on her fingernails then back up to her face. “I’m not here to cause trouble, for the record.” She laughs, a low, warm sound that cuts through the tinny country music blaring from the main stage 100 yards away. “I’ve been following your Instagram for a year. You’re the only person within 300 miles who knows how to properly seal a vintage camper roof without charging twice what the rig is worth.”
He tenses even more, ready to tell her he’s booked six months out, doesn’t do side jobs for rally people, when she adds, “I also remember you fixed my busted BMX bike when I was 12. Stayed late after the shop closed to put those stupid sparkly purple streamers on the handlebars even though my stepdad told you not to waste your time. I still have those streamers in a box in my apartment.”
That stops him cold. He’d forgotten that entire day, until she says it, the memory of a lanky 12-year-old with a scraped knee begging him not to tell her stepdad she’d crashed the bike into a ditch. He finds himself leaning against the bumper again, relaxing his shoulders, telling her the story of how he’d hidden the streamers in his toolbox for three days so her stepdad wouldn’t throw them away.
They talk for an hour, drifting away from the main crowd to sit on the tailgate of his beat up 2002 Ford F-150 parked a few rows back. She kicks off her boots, her bare foot brushing his calf once when she shifts to grab a bag of salted peanuts from her tote bag. He finds himself telling her things he hasn’t told anyone: how he almost shut down the shop last winter when lumber prices spiked, how he still sleeps on the couch in the barn half the week because the house he shared with his ex feels too empty. When he says that, she rests her hand on his forearm for three full seconds, her palm warm through the flannel, and says she’s been trying to work up the nerve to talk to him since she booked him for the show three months ago.
He’s just about to ask her if she wants to go for a drive to the overlook off I-17 to watch the sunset, when he sees three of her stepdad’s crew guys walk past, their eyes locking on them, eyebrows raised so high they almost disappear under their baseball caps. Manny tenses, ready to pull his arm away, make some excuse about needing to check on his rig, avoid the drama. But Lila just laces her fingers through his, calluses on her palm from hammering in event tent stakes matching the calluses on his from 20 years of sanding aluminum, and gives the guys a sharp, unapologetic stare until they keep walking.
He stares down at their joined hands for a long second, and realizes he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about the gossip, doesn’t care about her stepdad’s stupid grudge, doesn’t care if people make jokes about the age gap. He hasn’t felt this light, this seen, since before his ex left.
They drive out to the overlook 20 minutes later, the Winnebago’s engine purring smoothly down the two-lane highway, no radio on, just the sound of the wind whipping through the open windows. They sit on the hood of the Winnebago when they get there, watching the sunset paint the red rocks and pine trees bright pink and orange, the distant sound of the rally’s live band drifting up the hill. She curls into his side, her head resting on his shoulder, and he can feel the heat of her body through his shirt, the steady beat of her heart against his ribs.
He rests his hand on her bare knee, his thumb brushing the soft skin just above the frayed edge of her shorts, and when she tilts her chin up to kiss him, he doesn’t hesitate.
