Manny Ruiz, 53, makes his living restoring vintage RVs out of a converted tobacco barn outside Maryville, Tennessee. He’s lived there three years, since his divorce finalized, and has perfected the art of keeping to himself: he buys his coffee at the same gas station at 6 a.m. sharp before anyone else is up, only chats with clients long enough to confirm specs, and avoids all local community events like they carry a contagious strain of small town gossip. His biggest flaw, he’ll admit if pressed, is that he’s convinced any connection not involving a power sander or a rusted water pump is more trouble than it’s worth.
He only drags himself to the Blount County Fair on a humid Thursday evening because the client he’s currently building a 1972 Airstream for—Hal Carter, the county commissioner—cornered him at the shop that morning and insisted he stop by the historical society booth for free pulled pork. Manny figures he’s put in 12 hour days for three straight weeks on that Airstream, he’s earned a free meal. He shows up in a faded Carhartt shirt with grease under his fingernails he hasn’t been able to scrub out for three days, boots caked with sawdust and barn dirt.
Hal is busy schmoozing a group of cattle farmers when he gets to the booth, so Hal’s wife Clara is the one who hands him his sandwich. Their fingers brush when he takes the paper plate, and he notices first that her hands are calloused too, not the soft, polished hands he’d expect from a commissioner’s wife. “Garden,” she says, nodding at his nails like she can read his mind. “I grow heirloom tomatoes out back. Can never get the dirt out from under my nails either.” She’s 48, with sun freckles scattered across her nose, thin silver streaks woven through the dark braid slung over her shoulder, wearing a cutoff denim shirt that shows the faint scar on her left bicep from a horseback riding accident when she was 16. She smells like coconut sunscreen and the peach iced tea she’s sipping from a plastic cup.
They stand there talking for 20 minutes, the noise of the fair—carnival barkers, kids screaming on the Tilt-A-Whirl, the twang of a cover band playing old Alan Jackson at the main stage—wrapping around them. When a group of teens runs past chasing a runaway cotton candy stand employee, she steps into his side to avoid getting knocked over, her shoulder pressing firm against his upper arm, and she doesn’t step back once the kids are gone. He tells her he’s been prying the cracked original tile off the Airstream’s backsplash to regrout it, and her face lights up. “I picked that tile out,” she says, leaning in so close her hair brushes his jaw. “We bought that Airstream the year we got married, before Hal got into politics. We were supposed to drive it out to Yellowstone for our 20th anniversary. He forgot. I forgot too, until you said that.”
Manny knows he should leave. Everyone in this town knows who Clara Carter is. If any of the half dozen people he recognizes from the feed store or the auto parts shop see them standing this close, the gossip mill will be spinning fast enough to power his table saw by breakfast tomorrow. He doesn’t need the drama, doesn’t need Hal to yank the Airstream contract, doesn’t need to let anyone close enough to mess up the quiet routine he’s built. But he can’t make himself step back.
Hal yells over a minute later that he’s heading to the livestock barn with the mayor, asks Clara to hold down the booth for an hour. She nods, and the second he’s out of earshot she turns to Manny, grinning, and says she’s been begging someone to ride the Ferris wheel with her all week, and Hal hates heights. “You gonna make me go alone?” she asks, her eyes dark, not bothering to hide the fact that she’s flirting.
He says yes before he can talk himself out of it.
The line moves fast, and 10 minutes later they’re settling into a swinging plastic car at the bottom of the wheel. It lurches as it starts to climb, and she grabs his thigh to steady herself, her palm warm through the worn denim of his jeans, and she doesn’t move her hand once the car steadies. When they hit the top, the wheel pauses to let a family with a stroller get on at the bottom, and the whole town spreads out below them: the fair’s string lights twinkling, the hazy blue line of the Smoky Mountains in the distance, the tiny blinking light on top of the cell tower a half mile from his barn. “I hate this town sometimes,” she says quietly, turning to look at him. “Hal only cares about getting re-elected. All our friends only care about who’s cheating on who and what the pastor said on Sunday. I haven’t had a conversation that didn’t involve campaign donor lists in three years. I stop by the barn sometimes to drop off parts, you know? I stand outside the door and listen to you hum Santana while you sand. You look like you’re actually happy when you’re working.”
She leans in and kisses him before he can respond. She tastes like the cherry Sour Patch Kid she popped in her mouth two minutes earlier, and lemonade, and the coconut sunscreen he noticed earlier. He kisses her back, even though he can see three guys he buys lumber from standing in the Ferris wheel line below, even though he knows this is the exact kind of trouble he’s spent three years avoiding.
The wheel lurches again as it starts moving, and they pull apart, both grinning like teenagers who just snuck a beer behind the gym. They don’t talk for the rest of the ride, just sit there with her hand still on his thigh, watching the fair go by.
When they get off, they walk slow back toward the historical society booth. She slips a crumpled piece of paper into his front pocket when no one’s looking, her fingers brushing the waistband of his jeans. It’s her cell number, scrawled on the back of a historical society pamphlet about old one room schoolhouses in the county. “Hal’s going to Knoxville for a campaign fundraiser tomorrow,” she says, so quiet only he can hear. “The barn’s pretty far out of town, right? No one drives by that time of day?”
He nods, his throat tight, and she smiles, turning to wave as Hal walks back toward the booth. Manny slips out before Hal can spot him, drives home with the windows down, the warm humid air blowing in, the pamphlet crumpled in his pocket.
He walks into the barn when he gets home, flicks on the overhead light, and steps over to the Airstream. He runs his finger over the pale blue tile he’d been telling her about earlier, the tile she picked out 26 years earlier. He pulls out his phone, types in the number on the pamphlet, and hits call. She picks up on the second ring, and he tells her the front gate code is 7241, she can let herself in any time after 1 p.m. tomorrow.
He hangs up, leans against the side of the Airstream, and listens to the crickets chirping outside the barn. For the first time in seven years, he doesn’t mind the thought of putting down the sander for an hour tomorrow.
