Manny Ruiz, 53, spends 60 hours a week hunched over rusted floor pans and cracked water lines in his vintage RV restoration shop, a converted red barn 12 miles outside Waco. Grease lives under the edges of his fingernails no matter how hard he scrubs, his go-to uniform is a stack of faded flannel shirts dotted with resin, transmission fluid, and the occasional burn mark from his welding torch. He’d skipped every local community event for six years, ever since his wife Elaina died of breast cancer, tired of the pitying side glances, the awkward “how you holding up” questions, the unspoken expectation he’d live out his days as the town’s quiet widower. He only showed up to the fire department’s annual chili cook-off because his go-to parts supplier, Javi, begged him, said he owed Javi for hooking him up with the rare 1968 Travco engine he’d been hunting for six months.
He brought his own six pack of Shiner Bock, claimed a spot on the far edge of the hay bale seating, far enough from the crowd he could slip out before anyone tried to corner him. He was halfway through his second beer, timing his exit for 15 minutes out, when a woman tripped over a loose hay bale string three feet in front of him, half her bowl of chili sloshing directly onto his left flannel sleeve.
She yelped an apology, fumbling in her jeans pocket for a handful of napkins, leaning in to dab at the wet red stain before he could even say it was fine. Her hand brushed his wrist when she pressed the napkin to the fabric, and he caught a whiff of lavender hand lotion mixed with chili powder and cedar smoke from the fire pit 10 feet away. He froze, surprised by how warm her hand was, how close she was standing, her hazel eyes crinkled at the corners with embarrassment, no trace of pity in them when she looked up at his face.
“Jesus, I am so sorry,” she said, laughing a little, the sound low and warm, like honey poured over ice. “I just moved here three months ago, still haven’t figured out how to walk around hay bales without face planting. I’m Lena, Javi’s little sister.”
He told her the flannel was already ruined worse than a chili stain could make it, pointed out the welding burn on the cuff, the splotch of epoxy on the elbow. She sat down next to him on the hay bale, their knees barely two inches apart, and he could feel the heat off her jeans even through his own thick denim. She said she was the new elementary school art teacher, had driven cross country from Portland to take the job, had grown up camping in her grandma’s beat-up 1971 Winnebago, had been bugging Javi for months to introduce her to the guy who restored that mint Airstream he sold to the Austin couple last spring.
No one had asked him about his work for fun in years. Most customers only cared about cost and turnaround time, most people at the grocery store only cared about how he was coping with being alone. He found himself talking, telling her about the Travco he was currently rebuilding, the floor rot he’d spent three weeks patching, the custom oak cabinets he was carving for the kitchenette, the little sunflower inlay he was adding to the countertop just because Elaina had loved sunflowers. She leaned in when he talked, nodding, asking questions about the joinery, about the best way to seal old wood against road salt, her shoulder brushing his every time a group of kids ran past or someone squeezed by to get to the beer cooler. He fought the urge to lean into the contact, that tight, familiar twist of guilt in his chest for even noticing how nice she smelled, how easy it was to talk to her, until he remembered Elaina had made him promise, two weeks before she died, that he wouldn’t shut himself off from the world once she was gone, that he’d be an idiot to spend the rest of his life alone just because he missed her.
The fire department announced the chili winners over the loudspeaker, the crowd cheering so loud it made his ears ring, and a pack of 10 year olds chasing a stray dog barreled past, one slamming into Lena’s back hard enough to send her tipping forward into him. His hand came up automatically to steady her, resting on the curve of her waist, and suddenly they were face to face, six inches apart, he could taste the cinnamon and cocoa she’d put in her chili on her breath, could see the faint smudge of blue paint on her jawline from the art project she’d done with her second graders that day. She didn’t pull away, just smiled slow, and said she owed him more than a new flannel, said she made a mean tamale pie, no spills guaranteed, if he wanted to come over to her place sometime later that week.
He nodded before he even thought about it, that flutter in his stomach he hadn’t felt since he was 19 and asked Elaina to prom, his hand still on her waist for two more beats before he pulled it back, like he was scared if he let go too fast the whole moment would disappear.
He walked her to her beat-up forest green Subaru when the cook-off wrapped up, the October air nipping at his cheeks, the chili stain on his flannel already starting to dry crusty. She scribbled her phone number on a crumpled chili cook-off napkin, tucked it into the breast pocket of his flannel, her fingers brushing his chest through the fabric, pressing her palm there for half a second before she pulled away. She waved when she pulled out of the parking lot, and he stood there for five minutes after her taillights disappeared over the hill, his hand resting on the napkin in his pocket, the faint smell of lavender still clinging to his sleeve, and he didn’t even remember that he’d planned to leave almost three hours earlier.
