Manny Ruiz is 57, makes his living restoring vintage snowmobiles out of a weathered red barn 12 miles outside Traverse City, Michigan. He’s avoided every town community event since his wife died of breast cancer eight years prior, hates the tight, pitying smiles people shoot him over paper plates of potluck casserole, the awkward “how you holding up” questions that always come right before someone tries to set him up with their widowed sister or cousin. The only reason he showed up to the annual ice fishing contest afterparty at The Frosty Mug was his old high school buddy Jimmie promised to hand off a NOS carburetor he’d tracked down for the 1972 Polaris TX Manny was restoring for a rich client from Detroit.
The bar reeks of fried cheese curds and spiked apple cider, the jukebox blaring Johnny Cash deep cuts so loud the sticky vinyl booths vibrate under his thighs. He’s been nursing a single beer for 12 minutes, checking his watch every other second, ready to bolt the second Jimmie shows up, when someone slides into the booth across from him, so close their knees knock under the table.
It’s Clara Bennett, the new county public health nurse everyone’s been chattering about for six months, the one who wrote the indoor public gathering rule the whole town’s been complaining about. She has a streak of silver cutting through her auburn hair right at the temple, salt stains crusted on the toes of her work boots, and her coat smells like pine and peppermint lip balm when she leans forward to flag the bartender. Manny’s never talked to her before, but he recognizes her from the flyers taped to the grocery store bulletin board, the ones that say unvaccinated folks can only be inside public spaces for 15 minutes max, no exceptions. He’s got the bright orange paper wristband for unvaxxed guests wrapped around his left wrist, grease-stained and crumpled where he’d tried to peel it off in the parking lot.
She glances down at the wristband, then up at his face, one eyebrow raised. “You’re 40 seconds away from me writing you a $200 fine, Ruiz. I know that name, you’re the guy who’s refused to answer three of my department’s phone calls about your vaccine status.”
Manny snorts, pushes the jar of salted peanuts across the table toward her. His wrist brushes hers when she reaches for a handful, and she doesn’t pull away, leaves her hand resting half an inch from his for two full beats, her index finger calloused from giving hundreds of shots over the last year. “What can I say, I don’t go to doctors. Haven’t had a cold in 12 years, figured I didn’t need it.”
“Stubborn.” She pops a peanut in her mouth, grinning, and he can’t stop staring at the little gap between her two front teeth, the way the corner of her mouth tugs up when she teases him. “Most people who say that end up in the ER with frostbite or a snowmobile accident this time of year. You’d know that if you didn’t hide out in that barn all day.”
He’s surprised she knows where he works, surprised she’s even heard of him. They talk for 20 minutes, him telling her about the snowmobile he’s restoring, her telling him she moved up from Chicago after her divorce, needed somewhere quiet where she didn’t have to work 18 hour shifts in an emergency room. He forgets about the wristband, forgets about Jimmie, forgets about the carburetor he came to pick up, until she leans in across the table, her breath warm against his ear over the noise of the bar.
“I’m supposed to kick you out right now. I already gave three people warnings tonight.” She pulls back, her knee still pressed to his under the table, and he can feel the heat of her leg through his jeans. “But I have a 1968 Arctic Cat my dad left me sitting in my garage. Hasn’t run in 10 years. I’ll trade you a free look at it for skipping the fine. And you can stay as long as you want at my place, no stupid wristband rules.”
Manny freezes for half a second, the old guilt twisting in his chest, the voice in his head saying he’s betraying his wife by even considering it. But then she smiles at him, and he realizes he hasn’t felt this light, this interested in anything, in almost a decade. He nods, pulls his wallet out to pay for their drinks, ignores Jimmie waving at him from the other side of the bar, holds the booth door open for her when they stand up.
The snow is coming down hard when they step outside, fat wet flakes sticking to her eyelashes, the cold stinging his cheeks. She slips on a patch of black ice on the sidewalk, and he catches her arm to steady her, his hand wrapping around the soft wool of her coat sleeve. She doesn’t let go when she’s steady, laces her fingers through his, her palm warm even through his worn work glove. He opens the passenger door of his beat-up Ford F-150 for her, and she climbs in, still holding his hand, tugging him down to kiss her quick before he gets in the driver’s seat.
