Manny Ruiz, 67, spent 38 years teaching high school woodshop in the small northwest Ohio town he’d lived in his whole life, before retiring three years prior. His biggest flaw, per his late sister’s constant teasing, was that he couldn’t say no to anyone: he built custom ramps for elderly neighbors for free, ran a Saturday woodworking class for at-risk teens, and still donated half the stock from his small home craft business to the local PTA’s annual fundraisers. He hadn’t so much as flirted with another woman since his wife of 32 years passed from breast cancer in 2015, convinced that chapter of his life was closed for good.
The August street fair was sweltering, 92 degrees with a thick, sticky humidity that clung to the back of his cotton work shirt and made the cedar shavings at his booth stick to his forearms. The air smelled like fried funnel cake, cut grass, and the faint diesel fumes of the food trucks lined up two blocks down. He was wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand when he spotted her, walking toward his booth in a linen sunflower-print dress, white sneakers, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. He recognized her immediately: Elaine Carter, ex-wife of the former high school principal who’d cut his woodshop budget by 60% back in 2011, and a woman he’d spent close to a decade quietly admiring from a distance, convinced she was far too polished and out of his league to ever give him the time of day.
She stopped in front of his display of live-edge cutting boards, leaning in to run a finger along the grain of a thick walnut piece he’d spent three weeks sanding and finishing. Her shoulder brushed his when she leaned forward, and he caught a whiff of coconut sunscreen and fresh citrus, sharp and sweet against the greasy fair air. He froze, his throat going dry, half-convinced she’d turn and walk away as soon as she realized who he was. Instead she looked up, grinning, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the edges. She said she remembered him, that her ex-husband used to come home complaining nonstop about how Manny gave away too many supplies to kids who couldn’t afford them, and how he spent too much class time letting kids build stuff for their families instead of sticking to the curriculum. She’d always thought that sounded like the mark of a good teacher, not a bad one.
He laughed, surprised, and she held out a cold lemonade she’d picked up from a booth down the street, saying she’d grabbed an extra on a whim. Their fingers brushed when he took the cup, condensation dripping down his wrist, and he felt a jolt run up his arm that had nothing to do with the cold drink. He fought the urge to pull away, embarrassed by how quickly his face heated up, how long it had been since anyone had made him feel like a flustered 16 year old again. The old guilt pricked at the back of his mind, the familiar voice telling him he didn’t get to have this, that he was supposed to be the quiet, helpful widower everyone knew, not a guy flirting with his former boss’s ex-wife at a street fair. But she kept talking, telling him she’d moved back to town six months prior after the divorce, renting a tiny cottage down on the Maumee River, and he found himself leaning in, not wanting the conversation to end.
By the time the fair started wrapping up at 8 PM, the sun was dipping low over the horizon, painting the sky streaks of tangerine and soft pink. She asked if he wanted to walk back to her cottage with her, said she had a bottle of small-batch bourbon she’d been saving for no good reason, and a porch swing that faced the river. He hesitated for half a second, the old people-pleaser part of his brain reminding him he was supposed to go home and finish the birdhouse he’d promised the neighbor’s 7 year old. But then she tilted her head, smiling, and he said yes, surprising even himself.
The walk to the cottage took 10 minutes, the air cooling off as the sun went down, fireflies flickering in the tall grass along the riverbank. They sat on the porch swing, passing the bottle of bourbon back and forth, and her knee pressed against his the whole time, warm through the thin fabric of her dress. She told him she’d had a crush on him since 2010, when she’d stopped by the woodshop after school and seen him stay an hour late helping a kid who was living in a foster home build a bookshelf for his little sister. He’d never even known she was there that day.
She leaned in then, slow, like she was giving him time to pull away, and kissed him. She tasted like lemonade and bourbon, her hand soft against the side of his face, and he didn’t pull away. For the first time in 8 years, he didn’t feel guilty for wanting something just for himself.
He woke up the next morning on her couch, the smell of fresh brewed coffee drifting from the kitchen, the sound of ducks quacking out on the river drifting through the open window. He grabbed the walnut cutting board he’d tucked in his truck the night before, the one she’d admired, the one he’d engraved her first name in the corner of before he’d left for the fair, a stupid, impulsive thing he’d done the night before for no reason he could name at the time. He walked out on the porch, where she was leaning against the railing holding two mugs of coffee, and handed it to her. She laughed, bright and warm, and wrapped her hand around his wrist for a beat before pulling him down next to her on the swing.
