Manny Ruiz, 53, has run his vintage camper van restoration shop out of a repurposed tobacco barn outside Knoxville for seven years, ever since his wife packed a duffel and left for a guy who sold overpriced life insurance in the northern suburbs of Chicago. His biggest flaw, the one his only local friend Ron rags on him for every Sunday over biscuits, is that he assumes every woman who so much as smiles at him only wants free labor on their beat-up road rigs. He’s got grease perpetually crusted under his thumbnail beds, a scar snaking up his left forearm from a rusted bolt that snapped last spring, and he hasn’t been on a date since 2017.
He turned to step out of the way of a group of rowdy undergrads toting jello shot trays, and his shoulder collided solidly with someone holding a cold can. Blackberry seltzer sloshed over the rim and soaked a four-inch patch on the sleeve of his faded Carhartt jacket. He looked down, ready to brush it off and mumble an apology, and froze. It was Lila, his next door neighbor of three months, the one he’d deliberately avoided since she moved in. She was the ex-wife of the local megachurch’s lead pastor, the one the whole town gossiped about at the grocery store and the post office, the one he’d dragged a fallen oak tree off her driveway at 6 a.m. a month prior just so he wouldn’t have to stop and talk to her.
She laughed, a low, warm sound that cut over the noise of the crowd, and dabbed at his jacket sleeve with a crumpled napkin from her purse. “I am so sorry. I’ve been trying to catch you for weeks to bring over a peach pie, thank you for dealing with that oak. I left a note on your shop door, you never wrote back.” Manny shifted his weight, the grease on his nails digging into the palm of his hand. He’d seen the note. He’d thrown it away, convinced she’d follow up with a request for a free engine swap.
Her friend called her over a minute later, and she waved and walked off, but they kept crossing paths. Next time they were both leaning against the split-rail fence bordering the beer tent, their elbows brushing when she shifted to adjust the strap of her sundress. He felt the warmth of her forearm through the thin cotton, and flinched like he’d touched a hot exhaust pipe. She laughed again, tilting her head so the sun caught the gold streaks in her dark brown hair. “You act like I’ve got cooties or something. I see your shop lights on until 10 most nights when I walk my golden retriever. You ever take a day off?”
He mumbled something about having three vans to finish by the end of June, and she nodded, like she already knew. The band shifted to a slow, twangy cover of a 90s country ballad, and the crowd surged. A guy stumbling with a full pitcher of beer lurched toward them, and Lila stepped into Manny’s space to get out of the way, her chest brushing his bicep. She didn’t step back. The wind picked up, and her hair blew against his cheek, smelling like lavender and coconut sunscreen.
“I actually do have a favor to ask,” she said, and Manny’s jaw tightened, ready to shut her down, until she pulled out her phone and showed him photos of a beat-up 1968 Ford Econoline she was thinking of buying. “I already priced all the parts, I know you charge $75 an hour, I’ve got the whole conversion budget saved. No free work, I swear. I just want someone I trust to look it over before I hand over the cash.”
He felt stupid, heat creeping up his neck. He’d spent three months assuming the worst of her, and she’d already done her homework. “I’m free tomorrow afternoon,” he said, before he could talk himself out of it. “I’ll look it over for free, just this once. Call it a trade for that pie you still owe me.”
She grinned, slipping a slip of paper with her phone number scrawled on it into the front pocket of his Carhartt, her fingers brushing the fabric of his jeans just above the pocket for half a second. “I’ll drop the pie off first. Warm. Extra vanilla ice cream on the side.”
She walked back to her friend, glancing over her shoulder twice to wave both times before she disappeared into the crowd. Manny took a sip of his IPA, which had gone warm and bitter sitting in the sun, and he didn’t even care.
