Manny Ruiz ducks through the VFW door, rain dripping off the brim of his worn Stetson onto the scuffed linoleum. He’s 61, spent 28 years as a Glacier National Park backcountry ranger before retiring to restore vintage cast-iron wood stoves out of his double wide’s garage, and his jeans still carry a faint permanent smell of linseed oil and pine smoke. He’s intentionally kept to himself since his wife left 12 years prior, convinced any close connection would only end in disappointment, so he avoids eye contact with the group of old air force vets hollering over a game of pool, slides into his usual vinyl booth by the window, the one with a split seam that digs into his left thigh if he sits too long. He’s been coming here every Thursday for the cod fish fry for 14 years, long enough to know the routine by heart.
The line cook’s not the usual 72-year-old Walt, who’s recovering from knee replacement surgery. It’s Lila Marlow, Joe Marlow’s granddaughter, the same kid he used to take fishing on Lake McDonald when her dad was deployed to Iraq in the early 2000s. She’s got flour dusted on her forearms, a smudge of grease high on her left cheek, her dark hair braided down her back with a frayed leather thong he recognizes as the one he gave her for her 10th birthday, right after she caught her first 18-inch cutthroat. He’d forgotten he’d given that to her. She’s 42 now, he realizes, when she looks up and catches him staring, grinning so wide the dimples he remembers from when she was small pop in her cheeks.
She brings his order over a few minutes later: two pieces of beer-battered cod, a side of hushpuppies, coleslaw with extra vinegar, exactly how he likes it. She leans across the booth to set the plate down, her shoulder brushing his bicep, and he catches the scent of her perfume: cedar and ripe peach, not the cotton candy body spray she wore as a teen. “Still wearing that same ratty plaid flannel, huh?” she says, nodding at the faded red shirt he’s had since 2012. “I remember you wore it the day I fell off the dock and you had to fish me out of the lake.” He’s flustered, blinks a few times before he can answer, because no one’s paid this much attention to him in years, not since his ex left for a ski instructor in Aspen. He mumbles something about the flannel still being good, and she laughs, a low warm sound that makes the back of his neck feel hot.
He hangs around after the rest of the crowd clears, pretending to finish his beer while she wipes down the counters and puts the leftover food in Tupperware for the local food bank. She calls him over to help haul the 70-pound cast iron fry pot back to the storage closet in the back, and he’s happy to oblige, his shoulders pulling tight as he lifts the heavy pot, walking slow behind her down the narrow hallway. She trips over a stack of folding chairs left by the door, and he sets the pot down quick, catching her around the waist before she hits the linoleum. She’s pressed tight to his chest for three full seconds, her hands flat on his forearms, and he can feel the heat of her through both their flannel shirts, the way her heart is beating fast under his palm.
He pulls back first, flushing, mumbles an apology, feels a sharp twist of guilt in his gut. He’d watched her graduate high school, had brought her a case of beer when she got her first nursing job, had sat in the front row at her wedding 15 years prior. He’s old enough to be her dad, for Christ’s sake, he tells himself, disgusted that his pulse is racing like a teenager’s. But then she reaches up, brushes a stray gray hair off his forehead, her thumb brushing the scar on his left eyebrow he got from a fall on the Highline Trail in 2018. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was 16,” she says, quiet, like she’s afraid someone will hear, even though the building’s empty except for the two of them. “Never said anything. You were married, then you were grieving after your wife left, then I was stuck in that garbage marriage of my own.”
He stands there for a long minute, rain tapping hard against the back window, the distant hum of the beer cooler the only other sound. He thinks about all the nights he’s spent alone in his trailer, fixing stoves, watching old westerns, wondering if he’d ever feel anything other than bored and bitter again. The disgust fades slow, replaced by something soft and warm, something he hasn’t felt in so long he barely recognizes it. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches down, laces his calloused, scarred fingers through hers, her hands smaller than his, just as rough from working on her beat-up 1978 Ford F-150 in her spare time.
They stand there for another minute, holding hands, no pressure, no rush. She asks him if he wants to go fishing on Saturday, up at the same spot they used to go, the one hidden past the Avalanche Creek trailhead. He nods, tells her he’ll bring the same old rod he used to let her use as a kid, and the homemade jerky he smokes in his backyard smoker. She grins, squeezes his hand, and tugs him toward the front door, the rain still coming down hard, the parking lot dotted with puddles that glow orange under the streetlight. He holds the door open for her, and she brushes a kiss on his cheek as she steps out into the rain, the grease smudge still on her face, the leather thong in her braid flapping in the wind.
