Manny Ruiz, 57, retired high school woodshop teacher turned custom cutting board craftsman, had only agreed to show up to the Westwood block party because his next-door neighbor had badgered him for three straight weeks about bringing his hickory-smoked brisket. He’d spent the last three years dodging neighborhood events like they were contagious, still sick of the pitying looks, the offhand “how are you holding up” questions that always circled back to his late wife, Lena. He showed up an hour late, apron slung over his shoulder, cooler of cheap beer in one hand, aluminum brisket pan in the other, fully planning to ditch as soon as the last slice of meat was gone.
He was halfway through slicing the point end when she stepped up to the folding table, sundress the color of dried lavender, scuffed white tennis shoes, a half-empty iced coffee in one hand. He recognized her halfway through her smile: Lila, Lena’s cousin’s daughter, the kid he’d built a pine birdhouse for when she was 12, back when she’d spent a whole summer in town for 4-H. She was 38 now, he remembered, a travel nurse who’d just moved back to the area to take a permanent position at the downtown hospital, per the last family group chat he’d ignored. She leaned in to smell the brisket, her shoulder brushing his bicep before she caught herself, and laughed, a low, raspy sound like she smoked a cigarette every other weekend. “I’d know that smoke smell anywhere. You still use that old bullet smoker Lena threatened to sell twice a year?”
He blinked, surprised she didn’t lead with the usual condolences. He nodded, wiping his knife on his faded Carhartt apron. “Still runs like a dream. She never had the heart to get rid of it, said the brisket was worth the grease stains on the patio.” Lila shifted her weight, the hem of her dress brushing his work boot, and reached for a sample slice he’d laid out on a paper plate. Her forearm brushed his as she grabbed it, and he could feel the cold of her coffee cup seep through the thin linen of her sleeve, chipped deep red nail polish catching the sun. She took a bite, groaned, and leaned against the table next to him, close enough that he could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet tang of bourbon on her breath.
For the next 20 minutes, they talked around the stream of neighbors grabbing brisket slices, and Manny realized he wasn’t checking his watch every two minutes for the first time all afternoon. She didn’t ask how he was coping. She asked about his cutting board business, said she’d stumbled on his Instagram a month prior, had been obsessing over a live edge walnut board he’d posted for sale, needed one for the new apartment she was moving into next week. When a group of teens dragged a cornhole set right in front of their table, blocking half the foot traffic, she leaned in so her mouth was inches from his ear, warm breath fanning over his jaw. “You got that board at your place? I can pay you cash right now if you wanna sneak over so I can look at it. Everyone’s too busy drinking to notice we’re gone.”
The thought hit him like a punch to the chest. The last time he’d been alone with a woman that wasn’t a cashier or a doctor was Lena’s funeral. He thought of the neighbors, of Lila’s mom, who’d sat in the front row at Lena’s service sobbing so hard she could barely stand, of the stupid unspoken rule that you don’t flirt with your dead wife’s family, no matter how long it’s been. He hesitated, then grabbed his keys off the table, wiped the last of the brisket grease off his hands, and nodded.
The walk to his house was three short blocks, the air thick with cut grass and the distant sound of the party’s loudspeaker blaring 90s country. He unlocked the garage door, flipped on the warm overhead LED lights, and the smell of sawdust and citrus wood finish hit them both at once. Lila walked straight to the workbench, where the walnut board was propped against a stack of raw lumber, and ran her palm over the polished surface, slow, like she was feeling the grain under her fingers. “This is even prettier in person. How do you get the finish this smooth?”
Manny stepped up behind her, close enough that his chest was almost pressed to her back, and pointed to the faint, wavy grain pattern near the edge, his hand hovering an inch above hers. “Six coats of food-safe tung oil, sanded with 2000 grit between each one. Takes three days total, but it’s worth it for stuff this nice.” He could feel the heat coming off her shoulders, could hear her breath catch a little when he spoke. She turned her head, their eyes locking, and leaned back just enough so her shoulder pressed solidly against his chest. He didn’t move away.
He told her she could have the board for half price, no cash needed, if she brought that bottle of bourbon she’d been sipping on over later, after the party died down. She laughed, turning fully to face him, and brushed a stray piece of sawdust off his apron front, her fingers lingering on the fabric for a beat longer than necessary. She said she’d bring takeout tacos too, the al pastor ones from the food truck down on Main, the ones Lena used to beg him to pick up every Friday night.
He walked her back to the party 10 minutes later, the walnut board tucked under her arm, and neither of them mentioned the way their hands brushed twice on the walk over, the way no one at the party even glanced twice at them when they walked back up to the brisket table. He grabbed a slice of brisket for himself, popped the cap off another beer, and watched her tuck the board under one arm while she told her mom a story about finding the perfect piece for her new kitchen, no one at the table the wiser about the bottle of bourbon she’d stashed in her car for later.
