Rudy Galvan leans against the dented driver’s side door of his 1972 Ford F150, swirling sweet tea in a chipped Styrofoam cup, and pretends he can’t hear his buddy Earl badgering him about going on a blind date with his wife’s cousin. He’s 62, four years widowed, retired from 31 years as a central Texas high school shop teacher, and he’s told every single person in his 2000-person town at least twice that he’s not interested in dating. Dating, to him, feels like something for people who haven’t already had the good thing, who don’t have a garage full of half-finished restoration projects and a porch swing that fits exactly one person perfectly. The gravel parking lot of the roadside BBQ joint smells like mesquite smoke, burnt rubber, and the cheap light beer half the guys hauled in coolers, and the October air is cool enough that his flannel feels good, warm enough that he doesn’t have to zip it up.
He’s mid-eye roll at Earl’s latest joke about him dying alone with only his truck for company when a woman leans into the open engine bay two feet away, her shoulder brushing his bicep hard enough that he almost spills his tea. She’s 58, he’d guess, gray streaks pulled back in a loose braid, flannel sleeves rolled up to her elbows to show a tiny sun tattoo inked on her left forearm, work boots caked in red clay. “That carb adjustment you did?” She nods at the engine, her voice low, rough from years of yelling over farm equipment, he figures. “I’ve been fighting the exact same sputtering issue on my 1968 Mustang for three weeks. Couldn’t figure out why the screw wouldn’t catch.”
Rudy blinks. Most people who wander through the weekly car meet just ask how much he’d sell the truck for, or make a comment about how their dad had one just like it. He steps closer to the engine, so their heads are almost touching when he points to the tiny stripped thread on the adjustment screw he filed down that morning. “Someone cross-threaded it at some point. Had to file the grooves down by a hair to get it to catch. Most folks don’t think to check that, just buy a whole new carb.” He smells lavender shampoo when he leans in, mixed with the wood smoke clinging to her jacket, and he has to fight the urge to step back like he’s been burned.
He hands her a flathead screwdriver to run along the filed groove, and their fingers brush when she takes it. He feels the thick callus on her middle finger, the kind you get from years of pruning pecan trees or turning fence posts, and she smirks when he flinches a little like he touched a hot exhaust pipe. She twists the screw once, twice, and the engine idles smoother, purring so quiet you can barely hear it over the chatter of the guys at the next truck. “Maren,” she says, holding out a grease-stained hand to shake. “Just moved here three months ago, county ag extension agent. I’ve seen your truck around town, figured you’d know what you were doing.”
Rudy’s about to introduce himself when she snorts, tilting her head at him. “Wait a second. You subbed for Mr. Henderson’s shop class back in 1984, right? I was in that senior class. Failed my first small engine test because I forgot to gap the spark plugs, you gave me a second chance to redo it. Got a B, still have that test taped to my dad’s old toolbox.”
The tea in his cup tastes sour all of a sudden. He’d forgotten that sub gig, two weeks filling in when Henderson had knee replacement surgery, and for half a second he’s embarrassed, like he’s broken some unwritten rule just standing this close to a former student, even if it’s been 40 years, even if she’s a grown woman who runs her own farm consulting business and can rebuild a carburetor faster than half the guys at the meet. He feels that sharp, giddy twist of thrill low in his gut, the kind he hasn’t felt since he was 16 and snuck his dad’s truck out to take his future wife to the drive-in, and he hates himself for it a little, for wanting something he’d told himself he was done with forever.
He doesn’t make an excuse to leave, though. He doesn’t tell her he’s not looking for anything, doesn’t mention the dead wife he still keeps a photo of in his wallet, doesn’t make a joke about how old they both are now. He just laughs, tells her he remembers that class, that half the kids forgot to gap their plugs that semester, and they lean against the truck for another two hours, talking about engine parts, about the pecan orchard she just bought on the edge of town, about how the BBQ joint’s brisket has gotten drier over the last two years. Earl winks at him when he leaves with his cooler, and Rudy flips him off without looking away from Maren.
By the time the last of the car owners pack up their rigs and the BBQ joint turns off its neon “OPEN” sign, the air is cold enough that he can see his breath when he talks. Maren tucks her braid behind her ear, and holds eye contact for two full beats longer than polite, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half-smirk. “You wanna come out to my place tomorrow afternoon? Help me adjust that carb on my Mustang. I got peach pie my neighbor baked, cold beer in the fridge.”
Rudy says yes before he can overthink it, before he can talk himself out of it, before he can remember all the reasons he told himself he shouldn’t do this. She gives him her address scrawled on a napkin from the BBQ joint, her handwriting messy, slanted, and when she walks back to her Mustang parked two spots over, she pauses, turns, and waves before she climbs in.
He stands there for ten minutes after she pulls out of the lot, sipping the last of his now-warm sweet tea, the grease from the carb still crusted under his nails, the faint smell of lavender still clinging to the cuff of his flannel. He tucks the napkin in his pocket, unlocks his truck, and turns the key, the engine purring perfectly now, no sputters, no hitches, no hesitation.
