Manny Ruiz, 53, makes his living repairing antique typewriters out of a 300-square-foot shop tucked between a tattoo parlor and a vegan bakery in downtown Asheville. He’s got a scar snaking up his left forearm from a 1970s IBM Selectric that slipped off his workbench last spring, a habit of leaving the radio tuned to the same classic country station 24/7 even when he’s not there, and keeps a jar of lemon drops on his counter for the occasional kid who wanders in curious about the clacking machines. His biggest flaw, if you ask his little brother Rico, is that he’s been stuck in neutral ever since his wife left him for a real estate agent eight years prior, turning down every invite to dinner, every set-up, every casual hang that doesn’t involve typewriters or his usual Friday night booth at The Rusty Tap.
That Friday, the bar was busier than usual, the annual Southern Typewriter Fair having wrapped up a few blocks over an hour prior. Manny was picking lemon pepper seasoning out of his nail bed, half-watching a college basketball game on the mounted TV, when he spotted Lila hovering by the entrance, looking for a seat. He recognized her immediately: 38, graphic designer, the woman Rico had brought to his backyard cookout the previous weekend, the one who’d lingered by Manny’s work truck for ten minutes asking about the half-restored Underwood he’d had in the bed. Rico had been gushing about her for a month, saying she was the first person who didn’t roll her eyes when he ranted about his custom lifted F-150.
All the other booths were taken, the bar stools packed with guys carrying canvas typewriter swag bags. She spotted him, hesitated for half a second, then walked over, her scuffed combat boots tapping on the sticky linoleum. “Mind if I crash here for a minute? Every other spot’s gone,” she said, her voice raised just enough to cut over the jukebox playing Alan Jackson’s “Chattahoochee.” Manny nodded, shifting his beat-up leather tool bag off the opposite seat so she could slide in. The worn booth leather dipped when she sat, their knees brushing for half a second before she pulled back, muttering a quick, sheepish apology.
He signaled the bartender to get her whatever she wanted, she ordered a frozen margarita with extra coarse salt around the rim. They made small talk at first, about the typewriter fair’s weirdly competitive speed typing contest, about the unseasonably warm March weather that had the cherry blossoms blooming two weeks early, about the basketball game playing overhead where his alma mater was getting crushed by 12 points. Then she leaned in, the scent of jasmine lotion cutting through the bar’s usual mix of fried onions and stale draft beer, and said she’d bailed on their dinner plans with Rico an hour prior. “He spent forty minutes on the phone talking about new exhaust pipes before I even got in the truck,” she said, rolling her eyes, and Manny snorted before he could stop himself. He knew exactly how Rico got about that stupid truck.
They talked for an hour straight, about the vintage logo designs she was working on for a local hard cider company, about the 1920s Corona he’d just restored for a retired poet living in a cabin outside Knoxville, about how neither of them had ever liked hiking even though every other person in Asheville acted like it was a legal requirement to live there. When he pulled out his cracked phone to show her a photo of the Corona, their hands brushed when she reached to take it, a sharp little jolt running up his arm that he tried to ignore. He felt guilty, sharp and hot in his chest, every time he remembered this was the woman his little brother was halfway in love with. But he couldn’t make himself end the conversation.
She leaned even closer, her shoulder almost pressed to his, when she pointed at a scratch on the phone case he’d made out of old typewriter keys. “I thought about stopping by your shop three times this week,” she said, so quiet he almost didn’t hear her over the roar of the crowd. “Not to see Rico. To see you.” Her thumb brushed the small, faded scar on his right knuckle, the one he’d gotten when he dropped a portable Royal on his hand two months prior, and he froze. He knew he should tell her to leave, that this was wrong, that Rico would never get over it. But he didn’t.
He held her gaze for three long beats, the noise of the bar fading into a low, indistinct hum in the background. “My shop opens at 10 tomorrow,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. “I’ve got a fully restored 1956 Quiet De Luxe I think you’d like to test out. No rush. Stay as long as you want.” She smiled, the corner of her mouth tugging up just enough to show a tiny dimple in her left cheek, and finished the last sip of her margarita, the ice clinking against the plastic cup. She stood up, her hand brushing the top of his shoulder as she stepped out of the booth, and told him she’d be there at 10 sharp.
He watched her walk out the door, the bar’s neon “OPEN” sign painting her denim jacket bright pink for half a second before she disappeared into the dark sidewalk crowd. He looked down at his right knuckle, still tingling where her thumb had touched it, then picked up his half-empty beer and took a long, cold sip. The fizz burned the back of his throat, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t make a single excuse for what he’d just done.
