Manny Ruiz, 52, makes his living pulling rusted bolts out of 1970s Japanese motorcycles and breathing life back into frames that have sat rotting in farm fields for decades. He’s lived in the hollows outside Asheville for three years, ever since his wife Elaina died of metastatic breast cancer, and he’s skipped the town’s annual fall chili cookoff every single one of those years. This time, his only regular employee, a 19-year-old kid who sleeps on his couch half the week, practically dragged him out the door, saying if he spent one more Saturday night sanding gas tanks alone he’d turn into a hermit for good.
The air smells like hickory smoke, cumin, and cheap beer. A cover band on the small wooden stage slogs through a half-decent version of a 90s country hit, the lead singer’s drawl thick enough to cut with a knife. Manny leans against a split-rail fence at the edge of the field, holding a paper bowl of three-alarm chili he hasn’t touched, his boots half-sunk in loose gravel, already mentally running through the list of parts he needs to order for the 1976 Kawasaki he’s rebuilding for a client in Charlotte. He’s about to make an excuse to leave when he feels a hard bump to his left bicep, cold lager seeping through the sleeve of his well-worn gray flannel.
She stumbles back, laughing, a half-empty pilsner glass in her hand, the other pressed to her mouth to hide her grin. “Sorry about that. Gravel’s a nightmare in these boots.” She’s wearing scuffed work boots, same as his, a faded Flannery O’Connor t-shirt under a denim jacket, a tattoo of a carburetor peeking out from under the cuff of her left sleeve. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy braid, streaked with gray at the temples, her nails chipped deep burgundy, like she’d been painting them and got distracted halfway through. Manny recognizes her immediately: Clara Voss, the woman who opened the used bookstore on Main Street six months prior, the one the local church ladies keep gossiping about because she sells “queer memoirs” and hosts poetry slams on Thursday nights.
He swipes at the wet spot on his sleeve, half-smiling. “Don’t worry about it. Flannel’s seen worse than beer. Had a whole bottle of brake fluid spill on it last week, this is an upgrade.”
She steps closer, the scent of jasmine and cinnamon gum drifting over to him, and holds out her hand. “Clara. I’ve been trying to track you down for weeks. Got a 1978 CB750 sitting in my garage that won’t turn over, and every mechanic in town says you’re the only one who won’t charge me double just ‘cause I’m a woman who works on her own bikes.”
Her palm is calloused, same as his, lined with small scars from dropped wrenches and hot exhaust pipes. Manny’s throat tightens a little. He hasn’t held a woman’s hand in three years, not counting the nurses who checked his blood pressure at his last checkup. He pulls his hand back faster than he means to, the old guilt flaring sharp in his chest, like Elaina’s watching him from somewhere, shaking her head. He’s still wearing his wedding band, the gold worn thin at the edges, and he twists it around his finger without thinking.
Clara doesn’t push it. She leans against the fence next to him, their elbows brushing every time one of them shifts, and rants about the last mechanic she took the CB to, who told her she “probably just didn’t know how to use a choke right.” Manny laughs, a real laugh, the kind he hasn’t let out in months. She teases him about the wedding band, says she’s heard all the town gossip about him, that everyone says he’s a recluse who only talks to motorcycles and the kid who works for him. He teases her back about the church ladies, says they left a pile of pamphlets about “family values” on her bookstore doorstep last week, and he’d picked them up to use as kindling for his shop stove.
The band switches to a slow Willie Nelson track, couples drifting onto the patch of grass they’re using as a dance floor, swaying slow. Clara turns to him, her dark eyes bright in the string light glow, and holds out her hand again. This time, she doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head, the corner of her mouth tugging up in a half-smirk. Manny hesitates, his chest tight, the old war between guilt and want roaring loud in his head. He’s spent three years telling himself he doesn’t get to have nice things anymore, that he owes Elaina decades of loneliness to make up for the time they lost. But Clara’s hand is still out, her calloused fingers loose, and she’s not looking at him like she feels sorry for him, like half the town does. She’s looking at him like he’s just a guy who knows how to fix bikes, who’s good for a laugh, who might be good company for a dance.
He takes her hand. She pulls him close, her other hand resting light on his shoulder, their chests a few inches apart, and he can feel the heat radiating off her through their jackets. She smells even better up close, jasmine and cinnamon and a faint hint of motor oil, and when she sways to the music, her hip brushes his, she doesn’t move away. “You don’t have to feel bad about this, you know,” she says, quiet enough only he can hear, her breath warm against his ear. “I’m not asking you to forget anyone. I’m just asking you to stop punishing yourself for being alive.”
Manny’s throat goes tight. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls her a little closer, his hand resting firm on her waist, and they sway through the rest of the song, then the next one, then the one after that. No one stares, no one whispers, the town’s too busy drinking beer and arguing about whose chili is best to pay them any mind.
When the set ends, Clara steps back, grinning, and grabs a crumpled napkin out of her jacket pocket, scribbling her number on it with a half-dead ballpoint pen. She presses it into his palm, her fingers lingering on his for two full beats, long enough that he can feel the rough callus on the side of her index finger from turning screwdrivers. “Bring that spare carburetor you mentioned tomorrow? I’ll bring coffee. Fresh, not that instant garbage you probably keep in your shop.”
She turns and walks off toward the beer tent, her boot heels crunching on the gravel, and Manny stands there for a minute, the napkin crumpled in his hand, the ghost of her touch still on his waist. He looks down at the chili in his other hand, cold now, and takes a bite. It’s spicier than he likes, but it’s good. He twists the wedding band on his finger once, then shoves the napkin in his flannel pocket, and walks toward the food tent to get a second bowl.
