Manny Ruiz is 52, has run his vintage travel trailer restoration shop out of a converted barn outside Silverton, Oregon, for 21 years. His left knuckle is permanently crinkled from a 2017 accident with a sheet metal cutter, he still listens exclusively to 90s Tejano radio while he works, and he hasn’t let anyone get within arm’s length of his personal life since his wife left him for a client he’d spent three months customizing a 1969 Airstream for back in 2005. He tells himself he likes the quiet, likes that his only responsibilities are sanding dents, reupholstering dinette cushions, and showing up to the Silverton Taphouse’s monthly vintage gear swap every Friday before the college kids roll in and turn the back patio into a karaoke mess.
He’s halfway through his first pint of hazy IPA, grease still crusted under the edges of his fingernails from fixing a rusted water pump that afternoon, when he spots the stack of dog-eared camping guides on a table by the pool table. He doesn’t recognize the woman behind it at first, though he’s seen her around town before. She’s got a streak of silver through her dark brown bangs, wears a worn plaid flannel tied around her waist over a faded library volunteer t-shirt, and is laughing so hard at a story the retired fire chief is telling her that her eyes crinkle shut at the corners. He’s seen her behind the desk at the public library when he drops off his 12-year-old niece’s summer reading logs, but he’s never gotten close enough to hear her voice. He hesitates for 10 full seconds before he walks over, tells himself he’s only going for the camping guides, not the woman.
He tries to play it cool, flips through the book like he’s only interested in the campground maps, but he can feel her eyes on him, warm and curious. She tells him her name is Lena, she moved to town six months prior to run the children’s library program, her dad restored old campers when she was a kid, that’s why she has a stack of old guidebooks to get rid of. He finds himself leaning against the edge of the table, his shoulder almost brushing hers, answering her questions about his shop, about the 1954 Spartan Royal Mansion he’s currently restoring for a couple from Portland. He doesn’t mention the ex-wife, doesn’t mention the years he spent sleeping on a cot in his shop instead of the empty four-bedroom house he owns, just tells her about the time he had to chase a stray raccoon out of a 1964 Scotty he was working on, and she laughs so hard she snorts, and he finds himself grinning back, no effort required.
He’s fighting every instinct to cut the conversation short, run back to his usual stool at the bar and pretend the interaction never happened, convinced he’ll just mess it up like he messed up his marriage, that she’s too nice, too put together, to waste her time on a guy who spends 12 hours a day covered in rust and grease. He’s just about to mumble a thanks for the book and bolt, when a kid running past with a plate of loaded nachos knocks a chipped blue enamel mug off the edge of the table. They both reach for it at the same time, and their hands overlap, his calloused, grease-stained palm covering her softer, ink-stained one (she has a smudge of blue marker on her thumb from making construction paper turkeys with the first graders that morning). They freeze, neither of them pulling away, for three slow beats, and he can smell lavender from her shampoo over the smell of beer and fried food, can see the flecks of gold in her dark brown eyes when she looks up at him.
“I’ve been trying to work up the courage to come by your shop for three weeks,” she says, quiet enough that only he can hear it, even over the noise of the bar. “I have a 1968 Scotty Sportsman sitting in my driveway that hasn’t run since 1998. I was scared you’d tell me it’s a lost cause.” He blinks, surprised, because he’s been working up the courage to go talk to her at the library for just as long, but kept bailing at the last minute, convinced he’d say the wrong thing. “It’s probably not a lost cause,” he says, and his voice is rougher than he means it to be. “I can come look at it tomorrow morning, if you want. 9 a.m.?”
She grins, nods, and pulls the camping guide out of his hand, flipping to the inside cover. She scribbles her address and phone number on the blank page in blue ballpoint, her hand brushing his wrist when she hands it back. “I’ll make coffee,” she says. “And pecan pie. I baked a whole one last night and have no one to share it with.” He nods, can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound stupid, so he just tucks the book under his arm, watches her pack up her table a few minutes later, and walks her to her beat-up Subaru parked out front. When he opens the driver’s side door for her, his hand brushes the small of her back, light, almost accidental, and she shivers a little, even though the evening air is still warm for mid-October. She waves as she pulls out of the parking lot, and he stands there for a minute, staring at the taillights until they disappear around the corner.
He walks back inside, sits down at his usual stool, and takes a sip of his now-warm IPA. The bartender, who’s known him for 15 years, raises an eyebrow at him, and Manny just shrugs, flipping open the camping guide to look at her looping handwriting again. He tucks the book under his arm, finishes his beer, and for the first time in 18 years, he doesn’t dread waking up early the next day.
