Manny Ruiz, 52, makes his living rebuilding 1970s Honda CB series bikes out of a converted barn outside Fredericksburg, and he’d rather spend 12 hours prying a rusted exhaust bolt loose than attend any small town community event. His daughter had begged for three weeks straight, though, said the annual chili cookoff was raising money for the local animal shelter she volunteered at, so he’d caved, showed up in the same grease-stained denim work shirt he’d worn all week, a plastic cup of watery light beer in one hand, scuffed work boots kicking at clumps of crabgrass by the oak tree he’d claimed as his spot. The air reeked of smoked brisket, cumin, and cheap cotton candy, kids screamed as they ran past with face paint streaking down their cheeks, and he’d already planned his exit route for 20 minutes out when he spotted her.
He’d know that silver streak through dark wavy hair anywhere. Lila. His ex-wife’s half-sister, 48, who he hadn’t seen since the week after his wedding 28 years prior, when she’d packed her car and moved to Portland without a forward address. She was behind a booth stacked with glass jars of peach jam, wearing a gingham sun dress that hit just above her knees, laughing at something an older woman had said, the same crinkles around her eyes he’d memorized the night before he’d married her sister, when they’d gotten drunk on cheap wine in the hotel parking lot and she’d kissed him before running inside. He’d spent 28 years feeling guilty about that kiss, had told himself he’d avoided every family function she might be at out of respect for his ex, even after the divorce.
She looked up right then, caught his stare, and her grin widened so fast it made her dimples show. She waved, and he froze for half a second before lifting his beer in a half-nod. She told the woman at her booth she’d be right back, then walked over, boots crunching on the gravel, until she was close enough that he could smell lavender perfume mixed with the sweet, tangy scent of ripe peach on her clothes. She leaned in for a hug, and her arm brushed his, warm even through the thick denim of his shirt, and he felt that same jolt he’d felt that night in the parking lot, sharp and bright enough to make him fumble his beer cup a little.
“Still wearing that same beat-up work shirt you had when you restored that CB750 for my 21st birthday?” she said, leaning back, her fingers brushing the edge of the grease stain on his chest like she didn’t even realize she was doing it. He huffed a laugh, scratched the back of his neck. “Still bite your lower lip when you’re about to tease someone?” he shot back, and she laughed, loud and bright, and he realized he’d missed that sound more than he’d ever admit.
His daughter wandered over a minute later, lit up when she saw Lila, and wrapped her in a hug. “Aunt Lila! I didn’t know you moved back to town!” she said, and Manny blinked, realized he hadn’t heard. Lila told her she’d moved back two months prior, bought a small peach orchard on the edge of town, was selling jam to raise extra cash for the same animal shelter. His daughter winked at Manny, said she was going to go hang out with her friends, and left them alone again.
The sky opened up 10 minutes later, fat warm raindrops pouring down so fast everyone scattered, yelling, grabbing coolers and booth supplies. Lila yelped, grabbed his arm, and they ran for his old Ford F150 parked on the edge of the fairgrounds, huddling under the small awning over the passenger door when they got there, soaked through to the skin, pressed together from shoulder to thigh. He could feel the heat of her through their damp clothes, hear her breath catching a little as she pushed wet hair out of her face, and she looked up at him, eyes dark.
“I always wondered what would’ve happened if you’d knocked on my hotel room door that night,” she said, quiet enough that the sound of rain hitting the truck roof almost drowned it out. He’d spent 28 years lying to himself that he’d never considered it, that he’d been too loyal to his ex, but the words came out before he could stop them. “I had my hand on the doorknob for 10 minutes. Was too scared I’d ruin everything.”
She laughed, soft, and her fingers brushed his wrist, her touch warm even on his rain-cold skin. “You would’ve saved us both a lot of bad dates, that’s for sure,” she said. He stared at her for a second, then nodded at the truck. “There’s a 24-hour taco stand off 290 that’s been there since we were kids. They still make that carnitas you used to beg me to buy you after football games,” he said. She grinned, wiped a raindrop off his cheek with her thumb. “You gonna pay, cheapskate?” she said, and he laughed, opened the passenger door for her.
She slid inside, and the cab filled with the sweet smell of peach and lavender. He got in the driver’s side, shook rain off his hair, and turned the key in the ignition, the old truck rumbling to life under him. He pulled out of the parking lot without glancing back at the cookoff chaos behind him.
