Manny Ruiz, 53, had spent the last four years avoiding every local event in Dripping Springs like they served expired beer and mandatory ex-wife small talk. The vintage camper restoration specialist only showed up to this year’s July 4th block party because his 16-year-old next door neighbor had showed up on his porch at 7 a.m. red-eyed, saying the brisket food truck had blown a transmission on I-35 and the whole party was going to flop if he didn’t bring the 12-pound brisket he’d smoked for his own dinner that night. He caved, mostly because the kid had mowed his lawn every week for two years without asking for extra cash when Red, his cattle dog, chewed through the sprinkler line last spring.
He was manning the folding table by the food tent, sweat beading at his hairline under his faded Travis County Rodeo hat, wiping grease off his forearms with a paper towel when she walked up. He recognized her immediately, even though he’d only seen her once, 18 years prior at his wedding to Tara. Lena, Tara’s younger cousin, the travel nurse from Portland who’d spent the whole reception hiding under the table drinking his groomsmen’s beer, complaining her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her two days before she flew down. She was 49 now, sun streaks in her dark wavy hair, a scar slicing through her left eyebrow from the hiking accident she’d rambled about that night, wearing cutoff jean shorts and a faded Willie Nelson tee, smelling like coconut sunscreen and sweet iced tea.
She leaned across the table to grab a paper plate, and some kid on a scooter barreled past, shoving her hip hard against his. She didn’t jump back, just laughed, her shoulder pressed to his bicep for three full beats before she shifted. “I knew that brisket smell was you,” she said, holding his eye contact longer than was polite for a cousin of his ex-wife. “Tara always said you were too stubborn to stop smoking those things even after your doctor told you to cut back on red meat.”
Manny’s brain short-circuited for half a second. Every alarm in his head was blaring: off limits, ex’s family, everyone in this town will talk, you spent four years avoiding this exact drama. But he couldn’t look away from her mouth, the way she was biting the corner of her lip like she knew exactly what he was thinking. He handed her a slice of brisket, their fingers brushing when she took the plate, and he felt the rough callus on her index finger, the kind you get from writing hundreds of patient notes a day. “Didn’t think you were in Texas,” he said, grabbing himself a beer from the cooler under the table.
“Aunt Mabel had knee replacement surgery last month,” she said, leaning against the table next to him, their knees knocking every time someone walked past. “Tara was supposed to stay with her, but she bailed to go on a cruise with her new boyfriend. I drew the short straw.” She rolled her eyes, and he laughed, a real laugh, the kind he hadn’t let out around anyone who wasn’t Red in years. They talked for an hour, the crowd around the food table thinning out as the sun set, the sound of the local cover band playing old Merle Haggard songs drifting over from the stage. She told him she’d quit her ER job in Portland, was planning to travel the country working temporary assignments, had always wanted to buy an old camper to live in instead of crashing on friends’ couches. He told her about the 1972 Airstream he was restoring for a client in Boulder, the one with the original terrazzo countertops he’d spent three months sourcing from a salvage yard in San Antonio.
“Show me,” she said, when the fireworks started going off over the creek, the sky lighting up pink and blue. She didn’t ask if it was a bad idea, didn’t mention Tara, didn’t hesitate when he grabbed his cooler and nodded toward his property two blocks away. Red met them at the gate, wagging his tail, licking her hand before he even said hello to Manny. They walked into the barn, the Airstream parked at the far end, its polished aluminum shell glowing in the string lights he’d strung up above the workbench. He opened the door, holding it for her, and she stepped inside, running her hand over the new oak floors he’d laid the week before. She sat down on the built-in bench he’d just finished upholstering, patting the spot next to her, and he sat, their knees pressed tight together, no space between them. She leaned in, her breath warm against his jaw, and kissed him, slow, like she had all the time in the world. He didn’t pull away, didn’t overthink it, just tangled his hand in her hair, the taste of peach iced tea and beer on her tongue.
They heard the crunch of tires on his gravel driveway ten minutes later, and he knew immediately it was Tara, she drove that stupid bright yellow Jeep he’d bought her for their 10th anniversary. He tensed for half a second, ready to pull away, but Lena just laced her fingers through his, squeezing tight, not moving an inch. He could hear Tara’s footsteps on the barn floor, yelling his name, saying she had a box of his old stuff from her mom’s house. Manny leaned back against the bench, lifting their joined hands to take a sip of his beer with his free one, waiting for the door to swing open.
