Manny Rios, 57, vintage camper restoration specialist, hunches over a dented plastic bin of rusted hardware at the Maryville fall flea market, breath fogging a little in the crisp late October air. He’d driven over at 7 a.m. straight from his barn shop, flannel shirt still dotted with oak sawdust, work boots caked in mud from the dirt driveway, because the vendor running this bin posted a photo of a rare 1960s Shasta cabinet latch the night before, the exact part he’d been hunting for three months. His old hound dog Red is curled up asleep on the passenger seat of his beat-up 1998 Ford F-150, snoring loud enough he can hear him through the open window 20 feet away. The air smells like fried apple pies, pine straw, and the faint diesel fumes of the old pickup trucks idling along the market’s perimeter, and for the first hour he’s so focused on sorting through latches and hinges he doesn’t notice anyone standing behind him.
The voice is soft, warm, a little teasing, when it hits the back of his neck. “I swear you’d dig through a dumpster for an hour if you thought there was a camper part in there worth five bucks.” He freezes, because he knows that voice. He stands, brushes rust flecks off his dark wash jeans, and turns to see Lena Hale, 48, the woman whose husband Tom bought a fully restored 1972 Airstream from him four weeks prior, the one he’d spent six months sanding, rewiring, fitting with custom walnut countertops. She’s wearing a faded red plaid flannel that matches his almost exactly, high-waisted jeans, scuffed white sneakers, a paper cup of spiced cider in one hand, steam curling up to brush the dark hair falling loose from her low bun. He’d only met her twice before, both times when Tom was there, stiff, bragging about the cross-country trip they were supposed to take for their 25th anniversary. But Tom had called him two weeks prior, offhand, said he was taking a pediatric orthodontics job in Chicago, that he and Lena were getting divorced, that Manny could send the final paperwork for the Airstream to his new office. Manny had felt a sharp, unexpected twist in his chest when he heard that, and he’d told himself it was just because he hated to see all that work he put into the Airstream go to waste on a broken marriage.
She steps closer, until her shoulder is brushing his, close enough that he can smell jasmine lotion and cinnamon gum on her breath, no heavy perfume, nothing fancy. “I saw your truck parked by the entrance,” she says, nodding at the hardware bin. “Figured I’d find you over here. Tom told you about the divorce, I’m guessing.” Manny nods, unsure what to say, has a strict 15-year rule about not getting mixed up with any woman who’s even freshly separated, especially one who was married to a paying client. He feels that old, familiar pull to step back, make an excuse, grab the latch he found and hightail it back to his shop, where the only conversations he has are with Red and the radio playing 70s outlaw country on loop. But he doesn’t move. When they both reach down for the same polished chrome latch at the top of the bin, their hands brush, his calloused, grease-stained fingers against her softer, ink-stained ones (he notices a tiny sun tattoo on her wrist, something he never saw when Tom was around) and he feels a jolt go up his arm like he touched a live wire. He pulls his hand back fast, cheeks hot, and she laughs, quiet, not mocking. “Relax, Manny. I’m not gonna bite you unless you ask.”
They walk over to the row of food trucks, sit on a splintered pine bench off to the side, away from the crowd of families yelling after their sugar-crazed kids. She orders him a fried apple pie, shoves it across the table, and lets her knee rest against his when she sits down, doesn’t move it when he doesn’t pull away. She tells him Tom had been cheating on her with his dental hygienist for two years, that the Airstream was a guilt gift, that she’d known the marriage was over long before he announced he was moving across the country without her. She says she watched him carry that 80 pound walnut countertop into her driveway back in September, grease streaked across his left jaw, arms flexed under his faded Johnny Cash t-shirt, and thought he was the first man she’d seen in decades who didn’t look like he was constantly performing for someone. Manny listens, sipping the spiced cider she handed him, and realizes he hasn’t had a conversation this easy with anyone since his wife left him eight years prior, hasn’t let anyone sit this close to him, hasn’t wanted to. The guilt nags at him, quiet, that this is wrong, that he’s crossing a professional and personal line, but it’s drowned out by the hum of excitement he hasn’t felt since he was in his 20s, the sharp, giddy thrill of doing something he’s not supposed to.
She takes a bite of her own pie, crumbs sticking to her lower lip, and before he can think better of it, he reaches over, brushes the crumb off with the pad of his thumb, his skin lingering against her soft lip for half a second. She freezes, then looks up at him, dark eyes steady, no hesitation, no embarrassment. “You don’t have to keep hiding out in that barn all by yourself, you know,” she says, soft enough only he can hear it over the chatter of the crowd and the distant sound of a bluegrass band playing near the entrance. For a second he thinks about making an excuse, about saying he’s too old for this, that he doesn’t do casual flings, that he doesn’t want to be a rebound for someone going through a messy divorce. But then he looks at her, grinning a little, knee still pressed to his, and he knows he’s tired of being alone, tired of hiding behind his work, tired of making excuses for why he can’t have something good.
He asks her if she wants to come back to the shop with him, says he’s got a 1968 Shasta he’s restoring for himself, has a little propane stove that makes great dark roast coffee, that he can show her the custom cedar ceiling he’s been putting in all week. She squeezes his hand where it’s resting on the bench between them, her fingers warm around his, and says she’d like that more than anything. They sit there for another 15 minutes, watching a group of kids chase each other with dripping caramel apples, the sun filtering through the bright orange oak leaves, casting gold streaks across the dead grass under their feet. When they stand up to leave, she tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, leans her shoulder against his as they walk toward his truck, and he doesn’t pull away. When he opens the passenger door for her, Red lifts his head, sniffs her outstretched hand, and thumps his tail once in approval.
