Manny Ruiz, 53, spent 18 years as a minor league baseball equipment manager before a shoulder tear sidelined him, now runs a custom glove repair shop out of his attached garage in north Scottsdale. He’s stubborn to a fault, still holds a grudge against his ex-wife for walking out 8 years prior without so much as a note on the counter, has written off every romantic prospect in his age bracket as either looking for a free ride or too wrapped up in drama to bother with. He only leaves his shop two nights a week: Tuesdays for poker with the old league grounds crew, Fridays when the carnitas food truck sets up at the community park down the street.
The February air sat cool enough that he could wear his faded A’s hoodie without sweating through it, the hum of food truck generators mixing with the distant twang of a cover band playing 90s country across the field. He stepped up to the taco truck counter, three carnitas ordered already, and reached for the last horchata in the front cooler at the exact same time as the woman next to him. Their knuckles brushed first, his rough from years of working leather and tightening bat screws, hers soft but with a hard callus on the index finger and chipped iridescent silver nail polish. He pulled his hand back like he’d been burned, glanced up, and recognized her before she grinned.
Lena. His ex-wife’s younger cousin. He hadn’t seen her since the divorce, when she’d stopped by his empty house to drop off his old toolbox his ex had left in the garage. She was 47 now, he remembered, her dark hair streaked with a single silver streak above her left ear, wearing scuffed work boots and a hoodie with the logo of the dog grooming business she’d run up in Portland for a decade. She smelled like coconut leave-in conditioner and lime, the faint iron tang of dog nail clippings clinging to her cuff, and she leaned in closer than casual acquaintances ever did, like she was sharing a secret.
“Still wear that beat up A’s cap, huh?” She nodded at the frayed brim peeking out from under his hood, her knee brushing his when she shifted her weight. His brain short-circuited for half a second, half desire sparking low in his gut, half sharp alarm screaming that ex’s family was a line you didn’t cross, that she’d run right back to his ex and tell her every stupid thing he did. He opened his mouth to mumble an excuse to leave, to grab his tacos and bolt back to his garage, but she nodded at the open patch of grass behind her, a folded plaid blanket spread out next to a tote bag. “I got loaded fries with extra guac over there. Stay a minute. I won’t tell my cousin you’re breathing the same air as me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
He agreed before he could talk himself out of it. They sat side by side on the blanket, the fries crunchy and salty on his fingertips, and she didn’t ask about the divorce, didn’t mention his ex at all for the first 20 minutes, just asked about his glove repair business, listened when he ranted about the kids who bring in brand new $400 gloves and want them broken in in 24 hours. She held eye contact the whole time, never glanced at her phone, laughed so hard at his story about accidentally dyeing a pitcher’s glove neon pink when a dye batch went wrong that she snort-laughed, and leaned into his shoulder when she did it.
The sun dipped below the McDowell Mountains 40 minutes later, the air turning sharp enough that she pulled a thick fleece blanket out of her tote, draped it over both their laps, their thighs pressed tight together under the fabric. She told him she’d moved back to Phoenix two months prior, bought a small grooming shop in Tempe, adopted three rescue pitbulls that kept eating her couch cushions. Then she paused, picked at a loose thread on the blanket, and said she’d known her cousin was cheating on him for two years before the divorce, that she’d begged her to tell him, to leave him fair instead of running off with the guy she’d been seeing on road trips.
Manny went quiet. He’d never told anyone he’d suspected the cheating, had never even said it out loud to himself, too proud to admit he’d missed the signs for that long. He turned to look at her, and she was already looking at him, her face soft in the glow of the string lights strung between the food trucks, her knee still pressed tight to his. She said she’d thought about him off and on for 8 years, ever since he’d stopped to help her fix a flat tire on the side of I-10 when she was driving back to Portland right after the divorce, had stayed to make sure her spare was inflated even though it was 110 degrees out.
He didn’t overthink it. He leaned down, kissed her slow, the taste of lime Jarritos and spearmint gum on her lips, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing the faint laugh lines fanning out from the corner of her mouth. He could hear a group of teens laughing as they walked past, the taco truck guy yelling out an order number, the distant bark of a dog in the park, and none of it mattered, none of the old grudge or the stupid rule about not messing with ex’s family stuck.
They kissed for another five minutes, pulling apart every time someone walked too close like it was their own private joke, stealing bites of the last fry between kisses. When her phone buzzed in her pocket, she checked it, then slipped it back, tilted her head up at him. “My place is 10 minutes from here. The dogs are probably destroying my couch as we speak. Wanna come meet them?”
Manny stood up, folded the fleece blanket neat and tucked it back into her tote, grabbed her heavy bag of grooming supplies without asking to carry it for her. His calloused, leather-stained hand wrapped around hers, and he didn’t hesitate to cross the street toward her car.
