Manny Ruiz, 53, made his living sanding dents out of 1970s Winnebagos and rewiring frayed camper electrical systems, and he’d avoided the town of Yachats’ annual summer block party three years running before his 12-year-old neighbor Javi showed up on his porch at 9 a.m. begging him to bring his fully restored 1972 Brave for the vintage vehicle showcase. Manny was stubborn, the kind of guy who still ate the same turkey sandwich for lunch every day even after his wife’s recipe book collected dust on the kitchen shelf four years after her cancer diagnosis, but Javi had helped him haul a rusted awning the week prior, so he caved.
He parked the Brave at the end of the blocked-off street at 4 p.m., popped the hood for show, and planned to slip out by 6 before the gossipy retirees from the senior center descended to ask him when he’d “finally start seeing someone again.” That plan went out the window when he walked back from grabbing a lemonade from the food stand and found a woman leaning against the Brave’s passenger side, barefoot, a canned lime seltzer in one hand, the other tracing the faded rainbow decal he’d spent three weeks touching up. She was Lena, 49, a travel nurse three weeks into a three-month contract at the local clinic, renting the blue bungalow two houses down from his that he’d never bothered to notice was occupied. Her ankle brushed his scuffed work boot when she turned to say hi, and Manny froze for half a second, unused to anyone standing that close who didn’t want a quote for a camper repair.
She asked to see the inside, and he agreed before he could overthink it. She tripped over the raised entry step when she climbed in, and he caught her by the waist, her palm pressing flat to his sun-warmed cotton work shirt right over his heart. He could smell coconut sunscreen and the faint, sweet tang of lime on her breath, feel the rough callus on the side of her index finger where it pressed to his chest, and for a second he was so flooded with guilt he almost stepped back—he hadn’t touched anyone who wasn’t a family member or a client in four years, hadn’t even let himself look at a woman long enough to notice the streaks of auburn in her dark brown hair or the little silver star tattoo behind her left ear. That guilt warred with a hot, sharp thrum of desire he’d thought died with his wife, and he stood there holding her for two beats too long before he helped her steady himself, muttering a sorry he didn’t mean.
They snuck out during the fireworks, when everyone was staring up at the sky bursts of red and gold over the ocean, and Manny drove the Brave ten minutes up the coast to the clifftop overlook he only went to when he needed to be alone. They sat on the hood, sharing a pack of cherry Sour Patch Kids Lena had stashed in her purse, and Manny told her about his wife, about how they’d planned to buy a vintage camper and drive across the country before she got sick. Lena told him she’d started travel nursing after her fiancé left her, that she’d never stayed in one place longer than six months since, that she was tired of everyone treating her like she was just passing through. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he didn’t pull away, the weight of her warm against his side, the sound of the waves crashing 100 feet below drowning out every anxious thought in his head.
They climbed back into the Brave when the breeze picked up, and Manny brewed two cups of black coffee on the little propane stove, Lena pulling a bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies out of her tote bag she’d baked the night before. They sat across from each other at the tiny dinette, her bare foot brushing his under the table, and Manny didn’t even glance at the old analog clock above the sink, the one he’d always checked compulsively to make sure he got home in time for his usual 9 p.m. bedtime routine. He reached across the table, brushed a crumb off the corner of her mouth, and she smiled, lacing her fingers through his across the scuffed Formica tabletop.
